


Catullus 16

by eldritcher



Series: A Four Chord Carousel [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crisis of Faith, Culture, London, Love in the time of war, M/M, Past Abraxas Malfoy/Tom Riddle, Politics, Psychology, War Era, plenty of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-12 08:45:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 168,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4472828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grindelwald invades. Dumbledore goes to Canterbury.<br/>Voldemort hibernates under fur blankets. Harry discovers sex. </p><p>Our story begins there. It ends somewhere else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let me kill a mocking-bird

It had been a brilliant idea, really. 

Only, Harry hadn’t expected to wind up right atop his tranquilized target. In bed. 

Somewhere in the room, a cuckoo clock chose to call out the hour. Harry’s reflexes, already stressed to extreme sensitivity, responded with a Silencing Spell so fast that Hermione would have envied him for the rest of her life had she been present to see that.

Hermione. Right. Hermione, the Weasley family, Hagrid, Dumbledore…everyone, really, even including that prat of a Malfoy. He wanted to save _everyone_. That was why he was here, wearing a black catsuit and a silk mask, armed with tranquilizer darts, straddling Voldemort’s prone, inert form. 

Now he only had to kill the man. He bit his lower lip, hesitating. He had mulled this over a lot. 

Dumbledore had said that Voldemort could not be killed directly. Voldemort had proclaimed at his resurrection that he was far along the path of immortality. 

Dumbledore would have known what to do. Dumbledore would know what to do. Harry had not thought ahead that far. 

He had seen a report of Bellatrix’s latest killing in the Prophet, fretted over that, and promptly landed atop Voldemort in the dead of the night, determined to end it all. The bond was a rich presence in his mind, all the bloody time. He knew that he could reach Voldemort through it. He just _knew_ , even if he did not know why. So he went there, to his target, with his ill-formed idea involving tranquilizing darts. 

It was a good plan, Harry thought defensively. He remembered the snake then. He looked around carefully. He did not see the beast. Good. Maybe she was off hunting. He shrugged. 

He probed the bond. Voldemort still seemed well out of it, his presence in Harry’s mind bearing none of its usual potency.

Good. 

Now to kill the mockingbird. Harry frowned. He was not quite sure what Hermione’s book was about, but it had some killing involved. And Voldemort was always mocking Harry, wasn’t he?

“You deserve it!” Harry said vehemently, glaring at the target.

The target snuffled a bit and placidly continued its state of tranquility. 

The blasted cuckoo bird came out again, startling Harry, though it shut up after seeing the expression on Harry’s face. 

Right, time to kill. Voldemort’s time of reckoning had come. Harry would be jury, judge and executioner. Only fitting, was it not? 

He straightened his spine, and took a deep breath, only to suddenly realize that they must look something like that picture in Ron’s stash of dirty magazines. Yes, that one that Dean called the cow-girl position. Harry bit his lip again, shaking his head free of that ridiculous notion. Only, the idea of sex now badgered him and he wondered if Voldemort managed to retrieve his genitals too in that resurrection bid. 

Maybe that explained his bad temper. Maybe he did not fuck Bellatrix because he actually could not. Harry grinned.

It was the least revenge he could get for everything the bastard had done. 

So Harry tried rubbing himself harder against the front of Voldemort’s robes, trying to gauge if he could feel a penis. 

Oh, there was! Harry blushed. Well, time to get on with it then. With the killing, that is. He stopped his movement. 

It seemed to be a decent-sized lump, though, Harry noted distractedly. A growing, decent-sized lump. Horrified, Harry scooted forward more, only to lose his balance and fall flat upon his bony target. Arms came to hold him, pressing him against his target, and his mind was full of the awareness of a blacker presence.

“I can explain!”

That did not come out right. Harry gritted his teeth and tried to wrest back into a better position. 

Voldemort did not let him move, instead slipping a thigh between Harry’s legs and making a gay sort of gliding motion against Harry’s crotch.

“I am not gay!” 

Voldemort did not heed that. When had he listened to anything Harry had to say? He continued the motion, and his arms came down to hold Harry by the hips, limiting Harry’s thrusts.

Why was Harry thrusting?

Before he could find the answer to that question, or to any of the others, he collapsed on his target, spent and satiated. 

His brain always shut down after an orgasm. Sleep was overcoming him and he decided to deal with the rest of it when he woke up in a dungeon somewhere to Voldemort’s minions chopping off his bits. 

———

He woke to the very scratchy sensation of a cleaning charm upon his skin. 

“Watch that, Ron!” he muttered, and dug his limbs into his pillow.

A presence exploded in his mind, giving him a pounding headache and waking him up. As he opened his eyes, the cuckoo burst out of its hiding place and gave a triumphant note.

Oh, right. 

“Voldemort,” Harry said bravely, facing his death. At least, he got to die before he had to torment himself with why he liked what had happened the previous night. He did not really like it, he decided. It was just that he was a teenage virgin with needs and Ron talked so much about Hermione putting out. Harry thought he had been making progress with Ginny, but she was so…fussy.

So bravely he faced his death. 

Only, his death was more interested in flipping him over.

“Hey, hey!” Harry squawked, trying to bat the man off. Aunt Petunia had so much to say about perverts who liked boys, but he had never considered Voldemort to be the molesting sort. 

Then Voldemort did something with his hips that sent Harry’s eyes rolling towards the back of his head and Harry decided that sex before death was not a bad thing, especially if Voldemort was as obsessively perfect at it as Tom Riddle once had been. 

Why was the man so silent? Harry had never imagined Voldemort’s sex life, but now that he thought of it, he would have imagined Voldemort to monologue throughout the act.

Harry was about to ask when Voldemort drew Harry’s fingers into his mouth and laved them with such relish that Harry decided it was the best possible use for that mouth. Harry felt his cock stiffening as Voldemort sucked his fingers. Really though, Harry knew that he was getting off more watching Voldemort’s face slack in enjoyment. This time, after he crashed into orgasm, Harry stayed awake with effort, watching as Voldemort rolled over to his side, taking his weight off Harry, and then slipping a hand inside his robes for a purpose Harry could guess at. 

This business was a disaster, but Harry knew that he ought to face his death fairly. So he dragged his hand out of Voldemort’s mouth, enjoying the soft gasp of disappointment that was the result, and then stuck his hand inside Voldemort’s robes. He inhaled sharply when he touched velvet, ridged and thick. Heat bucked into his hand. 

“All right,” he muttered. He had done this to himself so many times. Only, now the angle was all wrong and his motions were jerky. 

Voldemort did not seem to care about the gracelessness of the motion, Harry thought, as he watched the man arching into his touch. Well, it did not matter if Voldemort did not enjoy it. It was only for payback. Harry was not gay. 

When Voldemort stilled under Harry’s wet palm, his eyes flared open, and the pupils were so blown that Harry knew that the man was drugged out of his head. 

“What did you do?” the man rasped, even before his body had stopped shaking from the aftermath of the orgasm, and his magic smothered Harry’s mind in panic. Magic crackled in the air, Harry felt goosebumps rise on his skin, and window panes shattered.

Harry attempted to wave his hands but his right hand was still stuck inside Voldemort’s robes. He dragged it out quickly.

“I am not gay!” he explained.

“Suck those fingers clean,” Voldemort demanded, pushing down his wand into Harry’s throat.

Harry frowned but did so anyway, humouring the man since he had no interest in dying by Crucios. It tasted quite good, Harry thought. He laved the webs between his fingers to make sure he got it all. Pity that he would die before…

“You like cock,” Voldemort announced, looking irritable. “Now that the question of your sexuality is settled, what is your purpose here?”

The first thought that Harry had was that Voldemort would make a poor counsellor. 

“Why did you..er..you know?” 

Voldemort smiled and it was not a pleasant smile.

“Whatever you drugged me with has managed to fire my neural pathways enough to contemplate slaking myself upon your scrawny form.” 

“You are scrawnier,” Harry shot back, choosing to skip over whatever neural pathways meant.

“May I choke you?”

“What?” Harry sat up, staring at the man who lounged across him, and looked quite serious. 

“Keep up, Harry. Sex. I want it. You caused this mess. You will correct it. So, you will have sex with me until this wears off. I am very angry right now, so choking will be a good start.”

“I have not done any of this before, you know,” Harry muttered darkly.

“Sex or murder?” 

“What do you think?” Harry asked testily.

“Why are you wearing that seductive costume?”

“It is not seductive! It is a catsuit,” Harry gritted out. “It is for killers who are silent and sneak about.”

“If you say so. It would only chafe,” Voldemort said. “Take it off.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. Voldemort held his gaze. With a sigh, Harry fumbled for the hidden zip in the back. 

“Let me,” Voldemort offered, looking reasonable and gracious all of a sudden.

Harry doubted the sanity of the proposal, but decided that getting stabbed in the back under the pretext of unzipping his catsuit was not his most critical concern. 

Voldemort was efficient at getting him out of the catsuit. 

“You have done this before.”

Voldemort made a noncommittal hum.

“You have done this with people trying to kill you!” Harry exclaimed, suddenly feeling quite sordid.

“No, of course not,” Voldemort snapped, gripping Harry’s hips and tugging the catsuit off his legs, leaving Harry naked but for his pants.

“Men do not come to my bed wearing catsuits to kill me, Harry,” he said, dragging his fingers down Harry’s spine, eliciting a shudder or two. “They come to seduce me. It is a very common fetish.”

Harry wanted to protest his awareness of this fetish when Voldemort stuck his hand down Harry’s pants and cupped his arse. 

“I am not-”

“Yes, you are not gay,” Voldemort said flatly. “Do you think I can’t make you enjoy it? _Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo_ , and you will want it all.” 

"What?"

"I will sodomise you and face-fuck you. Your Latin is lacking."

“I am resistant to the Imperius!”

“I won’t need that, Harry,” Voldemort said, and pressed a line of wet kisses down the line of Harry’s spine.

Harry was convinced of Voldemort’s words by the time long fingers had come to wrap over Harry’s arousal, alternating between that and tugging at the balls behind. As Harry shouted his frustration aloud, he felt his pants being tugged down and his thighs brought together. He felt panic rising in his chest, up his stomach.

“Keep them close and tight,” was the filthy order, followed by wetness slicking up and down the crevice between his thighs. Each stroke hit his balls.

“Intercrural, Harry,” Voldemort whispered. “A part of every boy’s education at school, or so I thought.”

Harry whimpered and pushed into Voldemort’s fingers. He was desperate enough to thrust and one of his jerky movements brought the slick heat between his thighs to brush against the crack of his arse. 

“Oh God!”

“It is exquisite, is it not?” 

“Do it again!”

Voldemort laughed his cold laugh but complied. Harry caught himself moaning at the overwhelming sensation. Then he was falling, and Voldemort fell too, with wetness spurted between his legs, and only Voldemort’s arms kept him upright, until he was gently let go and he fell onto the bed.

“I have never had one so young,” Voldemort mused, as they lay panting, side-by-side. 

“You have,” Harry muttered, pulling his pants back up. “There was Derrick Watson, of Fifth-Year, Hufflepuff. You buggered him when you were in Fourth-Year, over Flitwick’s desk in the Charms classroom.”

“Dumbledore caught us then,” Voldemort said, distractedly, turning to face him, running his eyes up and down Harry’s body. “Is he showing you Pensieve memories of all my past sexual encounters these days? How very useful.”

“It is,” Harry said defensively.

“It could turn you gay, Harry.”

Harry suspected that the connection between their minds could lead him down that path of gayness, if he was not careful. He knew that Tom Riddle had fucked women too (and how exactly had Dumbledore acquired all those memories?) but Harry wanted to play only for one side. Well, it did not matter. He was in bed with death. 

“How will you kill me?”

“Depends. Will you fellate me?”

Harry frowned.

“Suck my cock,” Voldemort translated helpfully.

“I am not-”, Harry began furiously, only to relent upon seeing the evil glint in Voldemort’s eyes. “Fine.”

It might make the difference between a drawn-out death and a mercifully short one. A part of him wanted Voldemort to make that sound he had made earlier, when he had arched helplessly into Harry’s palm. 

“Take your clothes off,” Harry asked, sitting up. 

For the first time, Voldemort looked hesitant. Harry would have called the expression troubled, but he knew better. 

“What?” 

Voldemort shook his head and replied, “I was only amusing myself, Harry.”

Harry knew he had the persistency of a bulldog. Hermione hated it when Harry prodded too much with his search for answers. He had learned to retreat when the set of her jaws indicated rising anger. Ron was much more tolerant of Harry’s curiosity.

Now, with Voldemort’s gaze darting away from Harry’s, Harry had to ask again, “Take off your clothes so that I can fellate you.”

He managed to even say that without blushing or stuttering. Harry considered that impressive for a teenaged virgin that was not gay.

“Take your pants off,” Voldemort snapped, clearly not expecting Harry to obey. 

“Fine!” Harry shouted and dragged them off his legs. Voldemort looked surprised and then quickly looked away as if concerned he might be caught looking. Harry grinned. He had done that often enough in the shower-stalls after Quidditch. Voldemort seemed to realize the ridiculousness, for he quickly brought back his gaze to stare at Harry appraisingly. 

Harry suppressed the urge to pull his pants back on. This had been the stuff of his nightmares: one day, he would be in bed, ready to have sex with a girl, and she would burst out laughing when she saw him naked. Voldemort had not been part of that equation, but Harry reflected despondently that Voldemort somehow managed to make himself part of every equation in Harry’s life.

“Lovely boy,” Voldemort said, as if irked. 

Harry stared at him.

Voldemort grimaced and said, “Except for the ribs.”

Harry decided that blaming Voldemort for his Aunt’s hospitality would not serve him. So he just stumbled forward until he had reached Voldemort and with shaking fingers placed his hands on the lapel of Voldemort’s robes.

“I am not Tom Riddle,” Voldemort said seriously. 

Harry wondered what that meant. Before he could reply, Voldemort had whispered a word and his clothes slid away into nothingness, leaving scarred, mutilated skin open to Harry’s eyes.

“What-”

Harry bit his lip before he asked the rest of the question. Fellate first, he decided, and tried to keep his breathing level and his fingers firm.

He looked down once and a queer sort of laugh escaped him. His hands were shaking. Voldemort lay back, eyes wary, and his hand came to Harry’s hips, pressing him down.

“Put your lips on my navel, wet and warm,” he instructed.

Harry could do that. 

“Close your eyes now. Inhale. Deeper. Take a deeper breath now. Good. Lave your tongue downward in small movements.”

Harry felt the rough, soft texture of scarred skin under his tongue and that was not enough. He brought his fingers to join the exploration. Voldemort was not still and Harry could feel sinew shifting beneath skin as he explored. Harry could feel the iron control bleeding at the edges in Voldemort’s voice, punctuated by sharp gasps. He took a deep breath and smelled arousal. Now it was his turn to gasp and rock against the linen. Instinct overrode his better judgement and he let his lips descend to lick and lave at the warm, rigid cock that was bobbing insistently against Harry’s skin. 

Voldemort’s hands came to rest in Harry’s hair, and Harry could sense that only restraint prevented them from pulling. He had seen that happen, often enough, in Ron’s magazines. It had reduced his arousal during masturbation sessions. Harry had often wondered why women let men do that. With Voldemort’s cock in his mouth, Harry decided that he would not like his hair pulled and that it was rather decent of Voldemort to refrain from such antics. Voldemort, uncharacteristically for him, seemed to be quiet and patient in bed. 

“Get away.”

Voldemort’s voice was a rasp, devoid of control or premeditation. 

Harry kept licking. He liked where he was and he liked what he was doing. Voldemort seemed to be in no state to oppose that. Harry knew he might pay for that later, but did it matter?

Voldemort’s hands tugged at Harry’s hair, but Harry responded with more ferocious licking. He felt Voldemort’s body shudder and still and shudder again, before he felt liquid stain his face. The cry Voldemort made was enough to tip Harry over too. They stayed like that for a while, until the cuckoo ventured out from its clock to meddle with Harry’s langour.

Harry decided he had had enough of nesting his face between Voldemort’s legs, and moved upwards. He was about to roll over and recover when Voldemort’s hands came to drag him close. Harry’s protest had only formed in his mind before it was wiped away by Voldemort’s tongue laving his face clean. Harry felt shudders coursing through his body and tinges of arousal reawakening.

“You are wrong,” Harry told him, once he had recovered from the unexpected eroticism of the act. 

It was a testament to Voldemort’s sex-muddled state that Harry only received a questioning hum in response.

“You are every bit as sexy as Riddle was,” Harry said.

“Sex makes you talkative and more of an idiot than you usually are, doesn’t it?” 

“How would I know?” Harry asked peaceably. “This is the first time.”

“The third time, if you had cared to keep count.”

“I think you count by sessions, not times. Besides, real sex is not this. It needs…you know!” 

Voldemort did not reply. Harry felt pleasantly drowsy and the ceiling had the most beautiful geometric patterns. 

“Derrick Watson died in France,” Voldemort said, breaking their post-coital silence and the thread of Harry’s musings.

“Oh.”

“He was in exile,” Voldemort continued. “For buggering men. The sex was real enough to ruin his life.”

Harry turned to face Voldemort. There was no emotion on his companion’s face. Trying to tread carefully, Harry asked, “Was he one of yours?”

“No. He was in the Ministry. Boring man. Boring job.”

“I thought you liked him,” Harry said in a small voice, remembering well the adoration on Derrick Watson’s face when he had got on his knees to suck young Riddle off.

“Wouldn’t Dumbledore have anything to say about that, I wonder?” 

Lord Voldemort has no friends, Dumbledore had told Harry often. He did not need them. 

“Your drug has some interesting effects, certainly,” Voldemort muttered then, sounding tired and cross. “I haven’t thought of Derrick Watson in years.”

Harry felt the need to say, “It is a Muggle tranquilizer dart.”

“For taking out savage beasts, no doubt,” Voldemort replied. “My body is not reacting well to it. You are lucky that your blood in my veins protects you from the worst of the reaction.”

Somehow, Harry felt that it was more Voldemort’s obsessive control-freakishness that protected Harry from the worst of it.

And somehow, Harry was unsurprised when he jerked awake in the early hours of dawn, in a strange bed, sprawled over Voldemort’s scarred, scrawny body, his cock painting pre-ejaculate over sleep-warm skin. Harry blushed. More than anything else, right then, he wanted to come on Voldemort’s back. He carefully shifted his weight away and settled at the far side of the bed. He could not sense Voldemort in his mind, so the man must be still asleep and unaware. 

By the time Harry woke up again, he could smell tea and toast. 

“Am I entitled to a last meal?” 

“Only if it is supper, Jesus.”

Harry’s stomach complained and he quickly asked, “What if I need to keep my strength until then?”

“Oh, why would you need to?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Harry asked, even attempting a coy look that failed judging by the unimpressed stare Voldemort gave him.

“I am not drugged anymore, Harry.”

Harry stared at him. Then he made an impulsive decision that was likely the worst in a life full of impulsive decisions, and asked, “Does that matter?”

It seemed to be the right answer, for in the next instant, Harry found himself still alive and in possession of toast and tea. Voldemort sat by him and watched him carefully.

The devil must have been in Harry, for he leaned forward and asked, “Since I am about to die, do I get to experience a morning-after kiss?”

Voldemort stared at him. Then his lips twitched and he said, “We wouldn’t want to deprive you of the experience. I must confess that I have always wanted to be willingly kissed by a hero.” Here, he darted Harry a challenging glance. 

Harry grinned. He could do that dare. He leaned forward and kissed Voldemort, full on his mouth, and because he could, he bit sharply at the thin lower lip. Voldemort’s arms came to hold the breakfast tray, because Harry’s were too busy gripping him by the shoulders. Then Harry tried what he saw Hermione and Ron do so often. He stuck his tongue inside Voldemort’s mouth and began licking. It was a terrifying, exhilarating experience and Harry was panting breathlessly by the time Voldemort joined the kiss, curling his tongue around Harry’s and teaching him the dance in a manner more refined and purposeful than Harry’s so far had been.

When they parted, Voldemort shoved the tray back onto Harry’s lap.

“Wow.”

“Look at what you have done,” Voldemort tsked, pointing to his lip that had begun bleeding after Harry’s bite.

“It is passion. I get excused for passion.” Harry decided to be generous and leaned in to lick the blood away.

“There is snake-venom in my blood,” Voldemort said irritably, stealing a piece of Harry’s toast. “I hope you die of passionate poisoning.”

“I won’t. Your blood, technically, is my blood too, after all,” Harry said confidently. “Here, have one more piece of toast, won’t you? I have buttered it for you.” 

“Your innuendo is appalling. As is your lack of fear to the prospect of death by poison. As is your lack of grasp over magical principles.”

“It could be worse. I could be dying of a sexually transmitted disease you gave me.”

“Maybe you have given me one. My blood is your blood, after all.” 

“Teenage virgin. Not gay.”

“Ah, yes, how could I forget that? I had expected you to be in a magnificent menage-a-trois with your friends.”

“What is that?” Harry asked, trying to wrap his tongue around the word and failing. It sounded like something Petunia might order for a tea-party.

“What do they teach you at school these days, I wonder?”

“Well, what is it?”

“A threesome, Harry.” 

“Oh!” Harry blushed. He had imagined himself between Ron and Hermione sometimes, and felt guilty about it whenever he had faced them the next day at breakfast. He had imagined that Ron would be patient and steady, helping Harry overcome his shyness slowly, while Hermione would be bossy and impatient. 

“I could always call Nagini,” Voldemort offered, licking the crumbs off Harry’s fingers placidly. 

“No!” Harry squeaked, shocked. “Of course not!” Then his mind short-circuited and he could not get the idea out of his head. Curiosity would be the death of him, he thought, as he asked timidly, “Do you?”

Voldemort swiped his tongue between the webs of Harry’s fingers before saying, “She is a special creature. Comes from India, as Dumbledore might have told you. Some cultures in India revere hermaphrodites. Nagini is a hermaphrodite snake. Very rare.”

“Does that mean-?” Harry coughed, failing to complete the sentence. Did that mean the snake could fuck Voldemort as well as get fucked by Voldemort? No, he had never seen a Pensieve memory of Riddle getting fucked. Surely, Dumbledore would have known. Besides, Voldemort was too much of a controlling bastard to enjoy that arrangement, surely? Harry stopped his imagination before it ran amok.

“She has a hemipenes. Yes. As well as a cloaca. It is fascinating.”

“Yes, well, but does it fascinate you?”

“I haven’t tried. I have only come into possession of a body recently, after all, blood of my blood.”

“I think I get to say that,” Harry muttered, wincing at his memory of that night. “It is my blood in your veins and not the other way around.”

Voldemort was about to reply, and Harry knew it would be something scathing and possibly lead to his torture and death, so he quickly asked, “If I were you, I would have had lots of sex after I got my body back.”

“Note the teenager’s opinion,” Voldemort said, his voice bearing amusement. “Yet, Harry, why were you a virgin until yesterday night?”

“I was waiting for the right girl,” Harry muttered, now feeling foolish about it all. He clearly should have taken up Cho on her offer. Sex was good. Why had he ever thought waiting for it was important?

“Ever thought of getting fucked, hero-mine?”

“Don’t call me that!” Harry protested, to cover up his discomfort and blushing. 

“I see,” Voldemort said with an evil smile. “I shall instruct you on the steps necessary to fuck yourself on my cock.”

Harry did not care overmuch for Voldemort’s spellwork which made his insides slippery and made him leak.

That changed. Harry cared very much, twenty minutes later, when he found himself panting and swearing and putting his Quidditch-trained thighs to excellent use. Voldemort’s instructions had ceased making sense a while ago, when they had devolved into rasps in Latin. Harry knew enough Latin from his Charms class to blush at some of the words. The cuckoo burst out of its clock to sound a hour-note, but squawked and went back into hiding upon seeing the scene unfolding on the bed. Harry wondered what Aurors or the Order would make of it all if they broke in to rescue him. He hoped he had enough presence of mind to roll over before they started cursing his partner. And this train of thought was wiped into obliteration by Voldemort losing control, surging up to grip Harry by the hips and rolling them over. Harry gasped as Voldemort thrust into him steadily and deep, striking places in him Harry had not known would bring such maddening pleasure.

“Touch yourself,” Voldemort ordered. “Come with me.”

Harry did so, and it was only natural, given the circumstances, Harry reflected, that when Voldemort collapsed atop him, Harry gripped him by the neck and kissed him long and deep. He seemed to have surprised the man, for Voldemort’s mouth opened easily and let Harry surge in and explore at whim.

“Let me clean you,” Voldemort breathed when Harry finally let go. “I need my wand. Was never any good at cleaning spells wandless. Dumbledore finds it amusing. He wrote an article about it in the Transfiguration Monthly of December 74.”

“Stop talking,” Harry muttered, wanting only silence and skin. He winced as Voldemort pulled out of him. He reached out to stop Voldemort from rolling to the side. The weight was pleasant.

“It will stop being pleasing very soon, Harry.”

Harry suspected as much. The leaky feeling between his legs was irritating. Still, Harry decided to indulge in the sensation, and dragged his fingers over the scars on Voldemort’s back. They were old and even, in parallel lines over his ribs, going around to the front of his body, over his chest, which surprised Harry. Strange pattern for a curse, was it not? Had Voldemort had them before his death? Harry could not remember if he had seen them during the graveyard ritual. Harry wondered if Voldemort minded him playing with the scars, but he had not heard a remonstration, so he continued with his exploration. Harry wondered if Voldemort was curious about Harry’s scars, awarded by the Dursleys for his incurably criminal behaviour. Harry’s fingers had reached the base of Voldemort’s spine and he hesitated, worried if Voldemort might react with anger to Harry touching any further down. Power and manliness went hand in hand, did they not? Harry bit his lip as he wondered what that meant about him. He had let himself get fucked and enjoyed it. Was he less of a man? Was he more feminine? Ron might think so. 

“It is only sex,” Voldemort murmured sleepily. “Stop thinking or bring up your Occlumency shields.”

“Hold on!” Harry said, worried. “Does that mean you know what I think all the time?”

“We have been in each other’s minds for a very long time, Harry. I suspect we just ignore the leakage from the other person’s mind without effort by now, except when in proximity.”

Dumbledore had said something about proximity affecting their bond, Harry remembered dimly. He was about to ask another question, when Voldemort made an irritated noise and darkness blanketed Harry’s mind whole, sending him off to sleep.

~~~

When he woke again, Harry found afternoon sunlight washing the bed bright. He winced as he sat up. There were unfamiliar sores and aches in his body. He smelled of sex. He could hear the sound of running water across the room. A bath. He wondered what the protocol was, but he really needed to piss and he did not think the window was an option. For all he knew, they could be at Malfoy Manor and he might end up pissing into Narcissa’s afternoon tea.

He walked to the bathroom door and knocked, adjusting his weight from one foot to the other. A spell shot out and before he could jump out of its way, struck him square in the stomach. He no longer needed to piss. 

“Stay out of my mind!” Harry shouted, before trudging back to the window and looking out. 

It seemed to be some sort of forested area for miles and miles around, as far his eye could see. The temporary vision-correcting spell he had thrown on before leaving school was wearing off. Harry had not thought to shrink and bring his glasses on his ninja adventure. Unfortunate. He had wanted to see Voldemort’s body in the sunlight proper.

He smelled fennel and rosemary before arms dragged him from the window and tugged him towards the bath.

“You stink,” he was informed.

“Whose fault is that?”

“Certainly not my fault that you cannot calculate drug dosage, and that you cannot kill a drugged victim.”

“I won’t kill myself. Or do anything evil,” Harry said, trying to shove the door shut. Voldemort lithely slipped in to the room and slid the door shut.

Harry threw up his hands in exasperation.

“I am curious, Harry. I want to see how a good, little, Gryffindor hero brings himself off in the bath.”

Oh, he wanted a show. Harry blushed, feeling both daring and embarrassed. He had become used to being nude around Voldemort, but this was more intimate, wasn’t it? Harry shook his head. He had been fucked by the man, after all. What could be more intimate than that?

“Instructions, instructions,” Voldemort said with a tried-upon sigh. “Fine, I shall give you some.”

Harry suspected Voldemort liked giving instructions. 

“Take that bar of soap. Fennel and rosemary, Harry. I noticed you smelling me earlier. Would you like to use the same soap? It touched me everywhere.” 

Harry’s face was red, he was quite sure. To give himself something to do, instead of standing there facing Voldemort with his erection, he grabbed the soap bar and jumped into the bath. Water splashed off the edges, and Harry blushed more at his clumsiness. 

“Rub the soap over your chest. In slow circles now. Pay particular attention to your nipples, won’t you? They seem to like that, don’t they? Slower, Harry. Don’t rush so.”

On and on it went, until Harry was quite sure that he would come at the next brush of soap on skin. 

“We can’t have that,” Voldemort said, and something wrapped around Harry’s cock preventing him from coming. 

Harry cursed and whimpered.

“Clean your cock now, Harry. Pay attention to the foreskin. Pull it back, clean underneath. Good boy. You are such a good boy. Now clean your arse. It must be really filthy. I could see my come leaking out of you earlier. Put your fingers in and draw the come out, Harry. Next time, we should do something about that. It wouldn’t do to ruin the sheets, would it? We will plug you and keep it all in you.”

Harry felt that Voldemort really was in the wrong job. He could have become a millionaire chatting up people on a phone-sex line, the sort Petunia used when Vernon was not home. Voldemort was saying something, but Harry was too busy enjoying his fingers. He felt a strong grip on his hand and the fingers were abruptly dragged out.

“Frigging yourself like a little harlot in a dock-side alley,” Voldemort said then. 

Harry _whined_. He knew he would eventually be dead, but he wanted to come first. 

“Get out of the bath,” Voldemort ordered. “Into the bedroom. Lie flat on your back on the bed. Spread your legs, as wide as they will go. If you have difficulty doing so, I can tie you up.”


	2. On the subject of catsuits

Harry thought he was going to get fucked again. He winced at the soreness that would result. How did women cope? Was it good to do it so frequently? Still, it was magnificent when the act was in progress.

He found himself surprised when he felt a blindfold wrap around his eyes. It was the same silken mask he had come with the previous night. He felt Voldemort’s fingers on his cock then and whimpered at the sensation. Voldemort laughed and moved his fingers downward, to tap lightly against Harry’s hole. 

“You should see yourself. All puffy and loose, still. Asking for it, one might say.”

Harry was. He was digging into Voldemort’s fingers, trying to get them in. Then he was jerking off the bed as something warm and wet came to envelop his cock whole. He could hear the sound of coughing, and then a laugh, and then restraints pushing Harry by the waist into the bed, holding his hips still.

The mouth returned and the fingers danced a merry tune on Harry’s arsehole and the ridge between balls and arse.

There was only silence, punctuated by Harry’s moans and shouts, by Voldemort’s slurping and swallowing, and the occasional cough as Voldemort retreated. Harry wondered, with the few sparks of mind he had left, why Voldemort was gagging on his cock so often. He was not big, compared to Ron or Seamus. Perhaps, Voldemort had not frequently done this before. It was considered a subservient act, right? Harry found Voldemort’s occasional coughing incredibly erotic, nonetheless, feeling more of a man now that he had managed to make someone gag on his cock.

Then Voldemort raked his teeth over Harry’s cock and the magic holding Harry wrapped burst, and with it burst Harry too. He had barely come down when his body convulsed again, at the sounds of the fast gulps as Voldemort swallowed his come. He had to see it. He dragged the blindfold off and moaned as he saw the trail of come still connecting Voldemort’s lips and his cock. Voldemort looked hesitant upon seeing that Harry was staring at him, but seemed to come to a decision and bent his head to lick off the last of the come daintily, right off Harry’s cock. 

“Fuck,” Harry whispered, and dove to catch Voldemort’s lips. Voldemort kept his lips closed, but Harry pushed in and tasted his come mixed with the clean taste of Voldemort’s mouth.

“That is considered quite gay in some circles,” Voldemort muttered, when Harry had finished.

“Is that why you blindfolded me?” Harry asked. “I would have loved to see that. All of that.” He shuddered as the eroticism of it registered afresh on his mind.

Hearing Voldemort’s noncommittal hum, Harry suspected the greater portion of it was the man’s perfectionism and being unwilling to let Harry see that him suck cock with anything less than absolute mastery.

“You were very good,” Harry said sincerely.

“What do you have to compare it by?” Voldemort asked, clearly disbelieving.

“Well, I couldn’t even get half of your cock into my mouth,” Harry pointed out.

“I have considerably more experience in the art of cock-sucking,” Voldemort said, with a wry smile, pushing Harry down onto the bed and then lying atop him, limbs sprawled, caging Harry in.

“The art of cock-sucking?” Harry laughed. “Was this too a part of the old curriculum at Hogwarts?”

“I learned it in London, if you must know,” Voldemort replied.

“I had thought of doing that, a few times,” Harry said, feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden, thinking back to his days before Dumbledore had threatened the Dursleys, when hunger had driven him into the streets to scavenge. Voldemort had said it without malice or bitterness. “I couldn’t bring myself to it.”

“I am not surprised. You don’t seem capable of the level of premeditation required for such an adventure.”

“If you have a lot of experience, why didn’t you believe me?”

“I have grown out of practice, as you clearly could see. It is polite of you not to remark upon it. Good etiquette, of course. I haven’t had much reason or desire to practise it in recent times.”

“Then why-?” Harry cut off before he could say something impolite.

“I wanted to. Under the right circumstances, I like sucking cock. Is that so strange to believe?” 

“It is only that I thought you might not want to.”

“You are confusing yourself needlessly with your notions of masculinity and strength. You cast a Patronus at thirteen. I killed my father at fifteen. You fought me in a graveyard alone and bleeding. I fought Dumbledore in Albania when I was little more than the meanest spirit. Do you think we aren’t strong enough or masculine enough because of sucking cock?”

Harry thought about all the times he had been teased for being built like a girl. Ron called him too pretty to be a bloke. Ginny’s dates, whenever she had a falling out with Harry, was with more manly-looking sorts.

“Was it like this when you were in school?”

“Children can be..swift to call names,” Voldemort replied absently. “My clothes at the orphanage were often hand-me-down frocks from the older girls. I was a small boy so those fit me better.”

“Did that bother you?”

Harry suspected it did not. Why would Voldemort speak of it if it was still something that bothered him? 

“No, truly,” Voldemort murmured, rising to pull the blankets over their bodies, to ward against the draught through the window. “You must have seen Pensieve memories which bear that out. Dumbledore likes to be thorough.” 

Harry wondered if war was fought like this, with each side knowing what the other might do. Dumbledore certainly seemed to know whatever Voldemort planned, just as Voldemort knew what the Order planned. Was Snape really that useless for both sides?

“Severus knows to maintain the exact level of usefulness at all times, with all parties, to ensure his continued existence.”

Harry thought back to his Occlumency lessons. Snape certainly had managed to meet Dumbledore’s criteria and Voldemort’s, and also managed to throw a fair amount of personal vendetta in.

“As charming as this has been, you must return.”

“I can’t!” Harry exclaimed, horrified. “Dumbledore will take one look at me and know everything.” Besides, how was he going to face Ron and Hermione? Or anyone else? What would he say? How could he explain?

“I don’t see horns over your head proclaiming your taint,” Voldemort said. “Don’t make eye-contact with Dumbledore, if you care to keep him ignorant. Throw wicked fantasies at him if he is curious.”

“Don’t you care?”

“He likely has hundreds of bottles in his store-room pertaining to my sex life, Harry. I am not bothered by one more.”

“He will want to know why you didn’t kill me!”

“No, he won’t.”

“What? Well, I want to know why you haven’t killed me!” Harry shouted, tugging at his hair with his hands in exasperation.

“Dumbledore knows why. Go bother him.”

Harry knew he should not look a gift-horse in the mouth, particularly when the gift-horse was both sex and a continued lease on life. Still, he was irked. He had spent all those hours worrying endlessly over his death while Voldemort had all along planned to send him back. His life, Harry reflected grimly, was a tennis ball being hit back and forth by Dumbledore and Voldemort, one twinkling and the other grinning evil grins. At least, he comforted himself, he got some good sex out of Voldemort. Dumbledore, on the other hand, …

“Is Dumbledore gay?”

“I don’t think so. Why would you want to know? Is it that you look up to him, and if he fucks men, it is all right if you fuck men too?”

“What? No! I was just curious about his robes.”

“Forgive me for assuming you were muddled in typical adolescent strains of thought.”

“I don’t know how to return.” 

“Ah, yes, no bond to follow. Such an inconvenience for our one, true hero.”

“If you won’t tell me how, I will stay here,” Harry said, spreading his legs and curling his toes into the bed. “I don’t mind gay sex.” He batted his eyelashes hopefully.

Voldemort looked revolted, and mentioned something about knowing how to create a portkey. Then he smiled. It was that evil smile. Harry knew it well.

“What?”

“Tell me, Harry, have you ever given a thought to getting fucked like a dog in heat?”

“Oh!” Harry’s mind helped Voldemort along, spinning fantasies at what truly must be the speed of light. Harry gulped. 

“I can oblige,” Voldemort said helpfully. “I do have a condition.”

Harry wondered what that could be. He was on board whatever it could be, he knew. He needed this now, to see why all those women in Ron’s magazines looked as if they had gone to heaven. For knowledge. It was all for knowledge.

“You must put your catsuit on,” Voldemort said.

Harry glared at the man. Really, of all the kinks to have. Harry found the suit uncomfortable. Still, one had to look the proper part of a sneaky assassin, or so one had realized after watching all those pulp films Mrs. Figg hoarded. 

“You can’t! It is a sacred part of popular culture’s assassins. It isn’t for your…fetish!” 

Voldemort looked unimpressed. Harry huffed and put the damned suit back on. He had to work the zipper up and knew he would have to fumble around. 

“You can zip me back up,” Harry told Voldemort. 

“Yes, of course.” Voldemort was all gracious helpfulness. Harry could, for the first time, see a bit of Tom Riddle in him. 

“Lovely,” Voldemort murmured, zipping him back up in one fluid motion. He placed an index finger over Harry’s arse and made a circular motion. Harry could feel fabric shifting and cool air hit his arse.

“Lovelier now,” Voldemort commented. “Get on your hands and knees. If you are very good, I will conjure you a mirror to watch us.”

Voldemort really was wasted on torture and murder, Harry thought as he quickly obeyed. A mirror! This was stuff beyond even those magazines and Harry’s imagination. Ha, nobody in his year had ever got sex this good, Harry was sure.

Voldemort was rough and steady, but still mindful of Harry’s secret places that brought so much pleasure. Each stroke hit Harry’s teetering mind off a ledge into an abyss. The mirror materialized half-way through the performance and Harry knew he did not stop groaning after that. He could not close his eyes. There was him, in that ridiculous catsuit, and there was Voldemort, nude and scarred, surging into him, eyes closed and hands gripping Harry’s waist so tightly that Harry half-expected them to sink through his skin and reach his bones. Harry tried to push back and it drove Voldemort wilder, from what Harry could see.

“Look at me!” Harry demanded, wanting Voldemort to open his eyes and see him. How unfair that the catsuit was going unremarked upon!

Voldemort opened his eyes and took in the sight before swearing in Latin and coming, falling onto Harry in a collapse of sweat and limbs. Harry held still, trying to clench, knowing that each clench brought him Voldemort’s moans and swears. The noises and the extended stimulation brought Harry off.

As they lay there, too tired to move, Harry said, “I will turn up for the final battle in a catsuit.”

Voldemort groaned and tried to move his weight off Harry, failing. 

Half an hour later, Harry found it very, very difficult to explain why he was wearing a catsuit to a worried Ron and Hermione who had been searching for him since Ron had woken up and found Harry missing.

“Is that a _tail_?” Hermione screeched, and all of Gryffindor flocked to the screech. Harry tried to hide the tail, because he had no intention of explaining that the tail had been a portkey plugged into his arse ( _to make sure you reach there intact and safe_ , Voldemort had said patting the base sharply just to hear Harry squeal). 

“It was a dare,” Harry said, waving it off. “Waged against the pride of Gryffindor.” 

Ron accepted the answer, but Hermione did not. Harry rushed to his bed, drew the curtains, extricated the tail out of his arse and glared at it. Then he rushed down for supper, only to find himself poking at steak-and-kidney pie while Snape, Dumbledore and Hermione all stared at him with varying degrees of thoughtfulness and suspicion.


	3. Lest I remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: drugs, nonconsensual sex.

When Ginny placed her hand on Harry’s thigh, it felt soft and warm and small. Harry brought his hand to gently and firmly grab the appendage and set it back upon the table. 

When Ron dragged Hermione into a long kiss as soon as they had left the Hall, Harry no longer felt like the awkward third-wheel who never knew when to look and when to look away. Instead, he walked away calmly, without jealousy or curiosity. 

Dumbledore called him for a chat. Harry and he had come to better terms after Harry’s Sixth Year, when Grindelwald had broken out of prison, when the whole of Europe had become embroiled in war, forcing Dumbledore to take Harry into his confidence more. Harry, for his part, thought that he had matured under Dumbledore’s tutoring, and even if he had not had any practical training, he felt much more comfortable being the face of the Order to the Ministry, repeatedly. During the year that should have been Harry’s Seventh Year, when Dumbledore had temporarily left for Europe to coordinate efforts there, Hogwarts had been closed. Lucius Malfoy and the Board of Governors had refused to countenance operating a school under the threat of Grindelwald’s invasion. Harry had found that ironic, given how Malfoy had no compunction about operating a school when under the threat of Voldemort. 

That had been a difficult year. Bellatrix Lestrange had wreaked havoc in the country. There had been multiple breakouts from Azkaban. Yet, the Ministry and the Aurors were more concerned by the threat in Europe, as Grindelwald amassed forces and marched towards France. After all, nobody had seen Voldemort in ages and Grindelwald was a more immediate issue. In the beginning, there had been concerns that Grindelwald might cooperate with Voldemort, but Dumbledore had said correctly that Voldemort did not share power. Harry knew that the scale of operations Grindelwald was handling was massive, compared to what Voldemort did. Perhaps, as Dumbledore once had said, Voldemort could not compromise at all on anything and did not court alliances the way Dumbledore or Grindelwald did. 

Dumbledore’s plans had at least ensured that Normandy remained standing as the last frontier between Grindelwald and Britain. Harry suspected Grindelwald was merely recouping, but Dumbledore had seemingly more time to spend on hunting Voldemort these days, and they had re-opened the school, so the threat at the borders must have been less pressing. 

Harry and Ron had spent the year at the Weasleys, collating information, passing messages on to Order members, and preparing for the Auror examinations. Hermione had been indispensable, working with Unspeakables, ciphering and deciphering Runes day and night, each time the Aurors intercepted Owls. Harry also had the more onerous task of dealing with the Minister, who had high hopes of bringing him in as a poster-boy for the Ministry response to Grindelwald. 

“It has been two difficult years,” Dumbledore said then, cutting into Harry’s thoughts as he effortlessly often did.

“Yes,” Harry said with a weary smile. “Any news?”

“Troop movements in the South of Germany,” Dumbledore replied. “Nothing concrete through our channels of communication. Never mind that, Harry. You have been preoccupied of late. Something on your mind that I could help with?”

Harry hoped to hell that Voldemort’s advice to fantasize about Dumbledore worked. It seemed to throw Dumbledore off, for a few seconds, before he recouped and said gamely, “I understand that teenage is a difficult time, in so many ways. Harry, regardless of whatever it might be, my door is always open to you.”

Snape was more difficult. Harry tried the same strategy, only for Snape to look all offended and go into a tirade about Harry’s father and how the apple did not fall from the tree. Then he seemed to wake up from his rant and glared at Harry.

“What are you hiding?” he demanded. 

Harry threw back more fantasies of sucking Snape off while Malfoy watched on. Damn, this was hard work. 

Snape narrowed his eyes, muttered the hated spell, and slammed against Harry’s mind. Ron’s magazines came to view, and then Harry’s fantasies about Ron and Hermione.

“Read something useful!” Snape howled, furious. “If I catch you thinking about this puerile garbage in class, I will confiscate them all!” 

Harry nodded and quickly left the classroom.

Hermione was the most difficult. She did not have a spell to aid her, but she did not need that. She harangued Harry with questions, every meal, in between classes. The more he tried to wave her off, the more convinced she was that there was something to hide.

“Is it because you have to return to the Dursleys next week?”

Harry had forgotten about that. He said, “After Dumbledore’s intervention, they haven’t been all that bad.”

Speaking of which, he ought to go find Cho and have sex before he had to leave for the summer. So he did that. Then he managed to find himself fucking Pansy and that was an eye-opener. She was so wild in bed, tying him up and then riding his cock until she had collapsed from multiple orgasms. Then there was Susan Bones, who was so staid and proper in bed that Harry was afraid of offending her somehow. 

Ron was all agog at how Harry had managed these feats. Harry suspected Ron would not like hearing the real reason behind his confidence.

Still, there was something missing, even with Pansy. Harry wondered if it was merely the difference between sex with men and with women. Or it could be power, Harry theorized. Voldemort had so many things effortlessly with magic, like that mirror and the cockring that still made Harry blush, and the tail that Harry was yet to live down. It could be experience too. Teenagers did not have that much, unless they were Tom Riddle. 

When Harry returned to the Dursleys, he knew he wanted to try sex with an older woman. He wanted to see how much experience could add to the game.

As soon as his relatives had gone off on vacation to Brighton, Harry put on his nicest jeans (that was not saying much) and a clean T-shirt, and took off to London. There was a Muggle night-club that Harry had heard so much about from Fred and George. He waved his fake ID and got in.

It was too loud and there were lights everywhere flashing. Harry took a deep breath to get used to the ruckus. There were couples dancing madly on the floor. Harry walked to the bar. An older woman. Right. 

It seemed to be just his night, because a lady in her forties came to him and asked in a very sensual voice, “May I buy you a drink?”

Kissing her was a sumptuous experience. She tasted of expensive tequila and cake. Her lipstick clung to his skin as they broke for breath. Her thigh was toned when he gripped it. Her breasts were full and pendulous. Harry wanted to stick his cock between them like he had once seen Riddle do in a Pensieve memory. Speaking of which, he needed to show Ron this one. Oh, yum! He could just imagine the envy and wonder on Ron’s face.

Harry went with her to her flat, a small one-bedroom in Kensington. There were photos plastered over her wall, of her family, of what seemed to be her kids. For the first time, Harry felt a pang of uncertainty. She seemed to have sensed it, for she told him quickly, “I am divorced.”

“Good,” Harry said with relief. Then he said, flustered, “I did not mean it like that!”

“Quiet.” 

Harry fell quiet. She poured him a drink and came to sit by him on the large couch. 

——

Harry came to in a large bed, naked, feeling quite disorientated and sore. He tried moving his limbs only to find them uncoordinated. Then he saw the blood on his hands. He tried to sit up and failed. Knowing that something had gone very, very wrong, and too afraid to stay there a moment longer, he tried to summon his wand. Dumbledore. Once he got his Patronus to Dumbledore, his Professor would fix this. His mind felt so sloppy and unfocussed, and his spell failed. 

They must be searching for him. They would find him soon, right? Harry tried to summon his wand again, all the while trying not to look below his neck, afraid of what he might find.

Then he sensed sharpness and focus in a corner of his mind, lying dormant. Voldemort. He strived to reach that corner. The door opened and a man came in bearing a needle. He looked surprised to find Harry awake and quickly hurried over. Harry desperately attempted to fight him off. The corner in Harry’s mind woke up, Harry’s head felt like it was going into split into two, and heat seared through his eyes as spellwork blasted off his finger-tips. He smelled burned flesh and vomited. Voldemort was in him, trying to gauge the situation, and it must be Voldemort who had the common sense to look down and see what had happened to Harry’s body. Harry fainted. 

When he woke up, he was lying in an alley, near smelly bins that were overrun with cats, and Tonks was trying to enervate him. 

——

“You remember nothing?” Dumbledore was asking him, looking as if he had aged years since the last time they had met. Had Grindelwald invaded? Was it a full-scale war? 

“We have been so frightened!” Mrs. Weasley said, her eyes red with weeping and sleeplessness. “We have been looking for you for days. Your Aunt told us you were missing as soon as she got back home, but she didn’t know where you might have gone.”

“Where is my wand?” Harry croaked. Dumbledore gave Mrs. Weasley a reassuring glance and placed a slightly bent, familiar wand on Harry’s lap. How had it been bent? Harry chewed his lip. He likely did not want to know. 

“Tonks found it on you,” Ron said. “She said it is the only reason why you are alive. You must have killed those people and then Disapparated the fuck out.”

Harry felt sick all over again.

“I can’t remember anything.”

“They used a drug,” Snape said, shifting uncomfortably. “It is called Rohypnol. You might have heard of it by its more common title, the date-rape drug. Amnesia is one of its side-effects.”

“Why?” 

Dumbledore looked torn. Snape sighed and asked Mrs. Weasley to leave. Ron patted Harry’s hand and conveyed his mother out, shutting the door behind them.

“The woman was a part of a trafficking ring. They had sex with you, a number of times,” Dumbledore said quietly. “We tried, Harry. We could not track you after the Muggle night-club. We were frightened. It was most unlike you to disappear like that without telling anyone. Ron thought you might have had an assignation with a woman there and wanted us to wait for a day before searching in earnest.”

“How did Tonks find me?” 

“She was just on her way home from patrol,” Dumbledore said wearily.

“What happened to those people?” Harry asked, focussing on the practical questions, desperately.

“They are dead.”

“You killed them,” Snape cut in sharply, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else, but still determined. “They drugged you, they raped you, they were cutting you into shreds, they were starving you to death. You were weak and drugged, half immobile due to the overdose, and still you killed them all, got out of there, and that is the end of it. Don’t let anyone tell you anything else. What you did to get out was the bravest thing I have seen anyone do. You must have had a powerful mind to battle that drug. I take back everything I said about your mind. I was wrong.”

“Right,” Harry said, roiling in the tumult, depressed and angry. “Right. Thank you.”

“That will be quite enough, Severus,” Dumbledore said strictly.

Snape huffed and left. Now it was just Dumbledore and Harry. Dumbledore sighed and cast the spell Barty Crouch had once cast on the same wand, to reveal the last few spells that had been cast. 

Harry’s eyes went wide at the number of Crucios and Killing Curses that revealed themselves. Voldemort had possessed him, body and wand. Harry knew he was alive only because of that, but he wished he had not seen the toll of it. Yet, knowing what he did now, based on what Snape had said they had done to him, he felt rage searing in him, wanting vengeance, and he felt cheated that Voldemort had got there first. 

“It was not me.” 

“I guessed that,” Dumbledore said heavily. “I could sense his magic all over you when Tonks brought you in. I suspect his mind was severely affected by your torment and he had to get you out for both your sakes.” 

“I wish it had been me,” Harry spat.

“I am glad it was not,” Dumbledore said firmly. “You have a long recovery ahead of you. There is no need to add anything more to it.”

“You weren’t worried that he had caught me and done…all this to me?” Harry asked, curious despite everything.

“I know him well, Harry. If you had been captured by him, I would worry more for your life than for your virtue.”

“I went with the woman,” Harry muttered. “It was my fault.”

“No, it wasn’t. Didn’t you hear what Severus said? It was your misfortune, not your fault. You need to talk to someone, Harry. I am here, but you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t wish to. Anyone you choose. Remus, perhaps? Miss Granger?”

“Let me think,” Harry said, to get Dumbledore off his case. Harry knew he would not talk to Hermione about this. Remus might understand. Harry bit his lip. What did he have to talk about? He didn’t remember killing anyone. He didn’t remember any of the rest either. He was bandaged heavily and likely looked like an Egyptian Mummy. Mrs. Weasley came in to feed him broth since his fingers were useless. She looked as if she were a step away from tears. Harry wanted to reassure her, but had no idea what to say. So they continued in silence and by the end of his meal, Harry felt he was one step away from tears.

Snape came in to fuss over his bandages and to pour potions down his throat. 

“What are they for?”

“You overdosed on the drug,” Snape said. “To fight the symptoms of overdose and withdrawal.”

“Could you get me a book on this drug?” Harry asked, without much hope. “I would like to know what it does.”

“It is chemistry and close enough to potions,” Snape said, still unable to rein in his bitterness despite his best efforts.

“I will survive a book on chemistry,” Harry assured him. 

Snape nodded and left. He returned with a slim volume, which looked new but often leafed through. There were ringed marks of a coffee mug throughout. And there were the scribbles that Harry knew well how to decipher thanks to his time with a Potions book.

“I had Dumbledore purchase this,” Snape explained when Harry quizzically looked at him. “I had not dealt with anything similar before, though I was familiar with the symptoms. I needed to know more. Madam Pomfrey is not here for the summer. You will just have to make do with my limited expertise. St. Mungo’s will only be worse.”

Harry, for the first time, realized how much Dumbledore and Snape must have done to make sure that he would recover. 

“Thank you,” Harry said, not knowing what else to say. Dumbledore must have been under a great amount of stress. Harry felt guilty about that, just as he felt guilty about Mrs. Weasley’s tears and about Snape’s gaunt, disheveled state. 

The more he read, the more horrified he was. Harry thought he could not sleep, but Snape’s potions made sure that he did so, and he slept, dreamlessly. When he woke again, determined, he sought in his mind Voldemort’s darkness. He felt it, felt safer, and rested again.

“He has been quiet,” Dumbledore said once, when he was sitting with Harry. 

Harry looked up from his crossword puzzle. Mr. Weasley had brought him a Muggle book of puzzles. Harry, bored as he was, had quickly finished that. Then Mr. Weasley had brought him another which Harry had finished in a week. Then Dumbledore had brought him a book that gave him a new puzzle everyday for the next five years. 

“The Lestranges have been busy recruiting, according to what Severus says,” Dumbledore said. “Malfoy is busy with the Wizengamot. And nobody has seen Pettigrew at all.”

“Maybe he wants to build his army first,” Harry said, leaning back on his pillow-fort. Dumbledore often talked more about the war when he was sitting with Harry. Dumbledore offered information when Harry was not desperate to have it. What a contrary man! 

“Perhaps you are right, Harry. I suspect something else is also going on. Can you feel it in your bond?”

“He has left me well alone,” Harry replied honestly. 

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still a work in progress. Sorry for the jerky pace.


	4. Through a glass darkly, and then face to face

Harry waited until the long summer was over. He waited until Snape and Dumbledore were busy with term-work. He waited until the students were back. Then he slid into his four-poster, closed the curtains, and dragged himself along the bond. 

Voldemort’s bedroom was still the same, except that it looked more disorderly and lived in. Did the man stay here all the time? 

“Harry,” Voldemort’s voice greeted him from the bathroom. “I can join you in a moment.”

Harry went to the bathroom. The door was open. Voldemort was seated on the floor, had gloves on and was stirring something, oily and smelling of rosemary and fennel, in a mixing-bowl. He had dark goggles on and looked like a character out of Dudley’s steampunk picture novels.

“I was in the middle of my soap-making,” Voldemort explained. “Don’t come too close. The smells are strong. I need to add the lye and stir for a few minutes.”

Fascinated, Harry came close anyway. “Can I watch?”

“What?” Voldemort asked distractedly, keeping his attention on the lye he was carefully adding. “Yes, yes, only be careful.”

“Why do you do this?”

“I learned it in the orphanage. Soap-making was one of the many crafts the orphans were taught. It made a tidy profit before the war. People were willing to buy at church events. It made the whole endeavour of funding more useful to our benefactors than just the warm feel-good effects of charity. Then, during the War, it was for the soldiers. I suspect a great many of the soaps I made were used by men the day before they were left unburied in France by the retreating armies. It now helps me focus and think. I like working with my hands. This is as good and useful a distraction as any, and one I enjoy more than the others.”

“At midnight?” Harry asked, stretching his legs out and watching Voldemort’s hands deftly stirring. 

“I don’t fall sleep until the early hours of the morning,” Voldemort replied. “As Dumbledore would have told you, doubtless.”

Harry did remember Dumbledore saying something along those lines. He lazily watched Voldemort pouring the mixture into a waiting mould and then wrapping that with clean linen towels.

Harry liked hearing about the War. Voldemort did not speak of it often, but Harry had not seen him shy away from offering details if they were relevant to the conversation. It must have been around the same time that Dumbledore had defeated Grindelwald, Harry reflected. Voldemort’s memories were sharp and personal and focussed on his own experiences, containing little of the politics or the principles that Harry had read about in his history books in Muggle school. 

Voldemort rose and put the mould away on a high shelf. Then he stretched and sighed, removed his gloves and goggles, and then offered Harry a hand up. Harry took it and was led back into the bedroom. 

“I can’t remember anything. It is strange, since the drug’s amnesia should not be so complete, at least according to the book.”

“I know. I Obliviated you rather thoroughly and I suspect Dumbledore will not mess with that, despite his aversion to my methods.” 

Harry sighed. He had suspected something like that. From his journeys through Dumbledore’s pensieve, Harry knew of Voldemort’s tendency to Obliviate anything that was too messy or difficult to deal with. He also knew of Dumbledore’s tendency to step back and pretend everything was fine if someone else had done the dirty work already.

Did it matter? Harry would have wanted it done, if he had remembered. 

“I had meant to open up the parlour across the corridor,” Voldemort said, correctly sussing out Harry’s discomfort on seeing that the bed was the only place to sit in the room. “Will the window-seat do?” 

Harry moved gratefully towards the large and only bay-window. The night was full, without a moon, only relieved by a star here and there, and the forests were a carpet of black. 

Voldemort sat upon the bed, at the edge, crossing his legs as if unsure what else to do.

“I came to thank you.”

Voldemort did not reply. Harry faced him and was startled by the expression of uncertainty on the man’s features. For the first time, they seemed to be on truly equal footing, with no clue as to how to proceed.

Harry took a deep breath and said, “In the beginning, I blamed you, you know. I was addicted to sex because of you, because of what we did here. At least, that was my reasoning. Then all that happened, and it was because of you, I thought.” 

Voldemort rose and made to say something, but Harry went on, “Then I realized that I had been lucky. I had had no caution with you. Luckily, I hadn’t needed to. Somehow, I thought that meant it was all right not to have any caution at all, with anyone else.”

“I don’t think that is what happened,” Voldemort said carefully. “I think what happened to you was misfortune. It could have happened to anyone. The government, the Muggle government, has statistics on this and it is alarming.”

“That is what Dumbledore said, more or less.”

“Even he is occasionally right.”

“You got me out. Snape said it must have taken a powerful mind to battle the drug enough to be able to act.”

“It is easier to act when your faculties are unaffected,” Voldemort said dismissively. “My mind was not compromised by the drug, after all.”

“You couldn’t feel it before?”

“I could feel that you were involved in some carnal episode.” Voldemort shrugged. “Since you have been promiscuous after our adventure, I thought it was more of the same. It is a habit, and an unconscious one, to stay out of your mind.”

Right. Voldemort had mentioned something about that before. Leakages in proximity? Harry took a deep breath and asked what had been bothering him since he had woken up in that alley staring into Tonks’s face. 

“Dumbledore says I have to talk to someone.”

“What is there to talk about? Your horrific Obliviation experience under my wand? Oh, it was your wand, and not mine.”

“Thank you for that too.”

“It seemed the easiest method to clean up that mess.” 

“Can I have sex?” 

“I am neither a psychiatrist nor someone who knows you well enough. I cannot answer that question.”

“Could we have sex right now?” 

“I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Do you want to? I want to.” 

Voldemort inhaled sharply. Then he asked in a quieter voice, “Don’t you think Dumbledore might be keeping a keener eye on you?”

“He has let me be.” Harry took a deep breath and began undressing. “I want to.”

Voldemort looked doubtful of Harry’s conviction. Harry himself was not convinced of the soundness of his idea. Still, he had to know.

“You will do as I say,” Voldemort said. 

That wasn’t new, was it? Harry suppressed a smile and nodded. Voldemort glared at him and got on the bed, lying flat. He extended his limbs and Harry felt bile rise in his throat remembering that Snape had said something about Harry being tied up like that for days, almost cutting off circulation to his fingers and toes. 

“Tie me up.”

Harry shook his head, frightened. Voldemort lifted his head and beckoned imperiously. 

“Come here, Harry. You promised to obey. If you can’t, return.”

Harry walked over. He was afraid to obey, but he was more afraid to return. He knew he would not get the chance to come here and try sex again if he returned. 

“Good boy,” Voldemort muttered when he felt Harry straddling him. “Spell the ropes tight, but not too tight to cut off circulation.” 

Fear flared bright in Voldemort’s eyes when Harry moved his wand to obey. Harry gulped. This was as frightening to Voldemort as it was to Harry. The man had impressive command over his wandless magic, but he was still frightened as he lay there, letting the prophecy child tie him up. 

“Good, well-done,” Voldemort said, clearing his throat to make his voice steadier than it was.

“Don’t take off your clothes yet. Take off mine first.”

Harry obeyed. He was shaken by the rapid breathing of the body under him. Voldemort seemed tense and uncomfortable, and yet determined. It was too late to withdraw, Harry knew. The man had a stubborn streak rivalling Harry’s, after all. Harry ran his fingers idly over Voldemort’s chest and wondered if his scars were similar to Voldemort’s. Did he have more now? Had he screamed when they had cut him open with their knives? Unable to deal with the turmoil in his mind, he turned his attention to Voldemort, who had kept his eyes open and fixed on Harry. Harry could sense that the man wanted to end this, to close his eyes and flee into the sanctum of his mind, away from vulnerability and the rising panic. Had Harry closed his eyes when they had done this to him? Had he been drugged out of his mind sufficiently to enjoy it? Harry touched Voldemort’s sharp cheekbone and stroked it gently. Voldemort nodded and murmured a Latin incantation. His face tensed more. 

“What did you do?” Harry asked, concerned.

Red spotted Voldemort’s cheekbones, and he murmured, “You are familiar with it. A cock-ring. You must touch it to release me.”

“If I don’t?” 

“Then it stays,” Voldemort said irritably. “Prepare yourself, carefully, and then ride my cock.”

Right. Harry thought they were both mad. Harry would not trust himself, right then, after everything that had happened and muddled his head so. Voldemort was mad, truly. Harry prepared himself, getting hard as he watched the cock-ring that held Voldemort, as he took in the ropes that held Voldemort. This would not end until Harry wanted. Overwhelmed by the inequality, Harry placed his hand on Voldemort’s chest, feeling the quick, shallow breathing under his palm.

“Look at you,” Harry murmured, overcome. He slid onto Voldemort’s cock, trying to fight down the panic rising in his chest. It went away when he saw the slackness on Voldemort’s face that had replaced the fear.

“Look at you,” Harry said wonderingly, as he rose and fell. Voldemort was trying his best to surge, but the ropes held him still. Sweat poured down his collar-bones, down his chest, down the sharp angles of his pelvis. Harry felt his coordination slipping, his orgasm approaching, and he flexed his thighs, trying to hit that pleasure spot in him with each rise and fall.

As he fell upon Voldemort’s chest, he could feel still the thickness in him holding him open. Despite himself, arousal crept in again. He glanced up at Voldemort, who had devolved into murmurs and groans.

“Open your eyes,” Harry demanded. 

Voldemort obeyed and shuddered. A wail half-escaped him before he brought his lips shut with effort. 

Harry lifted himself off gingerly and touched the cock-ring. It fell open. Harry drew a finger down the ridge.

“Harry, I can’t,” Voldemort whispered, trying to stay still and failing.

Harry swooped in to kiss the man. Voldemort’s hands clenched against the bonds, aborted in a move to hold Harry, and his hips thrust weakly against Harry in want, limited by his entrapment. Harry moved down, kissing and nibbling at Voldemort’s neck and collarbones, down his chest, down his navel, and then upwards again. When he reached Voldemort’s face again, he stuck two fingers into the slack mouth. 

“Suck them for me.”

Voldemort obeyed, without much coordination or grace. Harry did not grudge that. It was understandable, after all. When he drew his fingers out, Voldemort managed to open his eyes.

“Harry.”

Harry brought his wand to the ropes and freed the man. Voldemort moved quickly, rolling them over, and sheathing himself into Harry’s still slick and loose arse. He did not last past four strokes, but Harry did not care. He cared more about the trembling body atop him.

“Are you all right?” He asked, running his palms over the narrow back to soothe. 

“Fine,” Voldemort said, voice hoarse from overuse. “Are you?” 

“More than fine,” Harry told him honestly, letting his palms venture below Voldemort’s waist for the first time, his usual hesitation obliterated by their activities. “You and your ideas.”

“You like them all,” Voldemort replied, stretching his hands and then bringing them closer to inspect the rope-welts. Harry winced upon seeing them. 

“You bruise quickly,” Harry remarked, bringing them close to press a kiss on the welts. It was true. Harry recollected that the places where he gripped Voldemort in passion turned red quickly. “If I had known, I would have stolen Snape’s ointment that works wonders.” 

“It won’t kill me,” Voldemort said sleepily, rolling away to the side. “Pull the blankets up, and then get me a glass of water.”

Harry did that and was about to slip back in, when Voldemort said sharply, “Harry, you can’t afford to stay. Dumbledore will have search parties out by dawn, if someone reports you as missing.” 

“I suppose you will make me another port-key,” Harry muttered, unhappy about the fact that he had to leave. It was easier here, when he did not have to bear Ron’s and Hermione’s concern, and Dumbledore’s careful glances. 

“If you are going to make this a habit, you will have to learn to make your own port-keys,” Voldemort said. “Bring your wand here. I can’t focus on anything at all right now, and it is your doing, so don’t whinge too much if the port-key dumps you on the Isle of Man.” 

“Where is your wand?” Harry asked, irked at having to hand his over. Voldemort waved it and it made a happy jump in his hand. Traitor.

“I can’t remember,” Voldemort murmured. “Do be quiet and let me laze. Your wand is your port-key now, and a permanent one. It will always take you to where you belong.”

“Oh.” Harry whispered, overcome by the gift, for it was a gift.

“With the amount of trouble you attract, it should help,” Voldemort said quietly, looking at Harry with a thoughtful expression. “Blow out the candles before you leave.”

Harry went to the bathroom to wash up first, then walked back to the bedroom, set the place to rights, wondering once again how Voldemort lived in the middle of such disarray, then blew out the candles and walked back to the bed. The man was asleep. Harry pressed a kiss to the hand outside the blankets, clutched his wand, and ended up in his four-poster bed at Hogwarts. 

“Not the Isle of Man, after all,” Harry said to himself, smiling. He fell asleep quickly. 

——


	5. The Isle of Man

“Slytherins!” Ron was shouting angrily at the Quidditch match. They had sat this one out. Harry did not wish to participate. Ron had then decided to keep him company as Hermione was unlikely to, given that the NEWTs were looming. 

“Cowards! Cheaters!” the Gryffindors around them were yelling.

Harry could only think of Voldemort letting himself be tied, despite his fear that had nearly careened into full-blown panic. He had obeyed Harry, had let Harry take pleasure from his body, had stayed as still as he could until his control had been smashed into smithereens, and even then he had not used wandless magic. Dumbledore said all of Voldemort’s evil arose from fear. Harry had to disagree. Fear was present, but Harry was sure it was under control most of the time.

The stands erupted into raucousness then. On the pitch, the Gryffindor team had pulled ahead and won. Ginny was blazing across, the Snitch aloft in her hands, her face triumphant. Harry rose with the rest of them to cheer the well-deserved victory.

Remus visited Harry after the match. Harry made his excuses to Ron and Hermione, and accompanied the older man for a walk around the Lake. 

“How have you been doing, Harry?” 

“I am fine,” Harry said honestly. 

What did he have to fret about? He remembered nothing. Voldemort had seen to that. He had been worried about having sex after all that had happened to him, especially since Snape had left him newly purchased books that dealt with the subject of moving on from abuse. Voldemort had seen to that. There were the scars on his body. Those bothered him, especially when he was changing and Ron’s eyes took on a tinge of pity. He hoped one day to stop being bothered. 

“Are you still working with the werewolf packs for the Order?” 

“Yes, Harry. Dumbledore had sent me to Normandy to bring more support for us. It is going as well as we expected it to. Some of the older pack members remember what it was like in the days of the first war with Grindelwald. The younger ones still hearken to You Know Who’s propaganda. Greyback is actively recruiting.”

Harry sighed. The war was going on, regardless of what Harry wanted. What did he want? He wanted to leave Hogwarts, find a job, and to finally have a normal life. He knew it was impossible. Grindelwald had offered a price for his head. 

Neither Dumbledore nor Voldemort would let him slip into a normal life. He was one man’s figurehead and another’s destined slayer. Harry knew that Dumbledore would be disappointed. Harry could not kill Voldemort, not after all that had happened between them. Yes, it was strictly sex, but Harry suspected that Voldemort did not make port-keys for just anyone. Besides, he was sure that he was the first to tie Voldemort up. For God’s sake, Voldemort had even done him the extreme kindness of Obliviating him. 

“I want out of this war,” Harry said.

“What?” Remus sounded startled. “I understand, Harry. War is evil and you are so young. We don’t want you fighting in this war. The circumstances have brought you into an unfortunate position. You Know Who will never leave you alone, until one of you is dead.”

Harry suspected Voldemort would not mind having him out of the war. He did not know. They had never spoken of it. Harry made a mental note to ask Dumbledore why Voldemort had not killed him when he had the chance. Maybe it was the bond. 

“Ron and Hermione tell me you have been very quiet of late.”

“Just thinking,” Harry replied. “What is Voldemort’s plan? Do we know?” 

“Nobody has seen him since the battle at the Ministry,” Remus said. “Some of the werewolves even say that he is dead, killed by infighting within the Death Eaters, or killed by Grindelwald himself. Bellatrix has been actively seen leading attacks in his name and casting the Dark Mark, however. Professor Snape also reports that there have been summonings, though Rabastan Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy have presided over the meetings.” 

Harry suspected that Voldemort had barricaded himself within that mansion after the Ministry battle, and Grindelwald’s war had probably settled the matter for him. Having spent years roving around as a spirit, the man was unlikely to take huge chances with his life.

Why hide from his own men though? He did not seem to be researching anything, except soap-making. Harry had often perused the books lying around. They seemed mostly boring and useless, on varied subjects from getting rid of household pests to Merlin’s biography. Harry had to get answers, from Dumbledore, as difficult as the exercise was going to be. Voldemort was unlikely to talk to Harry about anything war-related, and Harry had no intention to upset their delicate truce over sex. 

“How do you know if you like sex better with men or women?” Harry asked Remus. It had bothered him a great deal, before the misadventure of his summer. 

Remus laughed and said, “I had honestly expected you to have these questions at fifteen. You are a late bloomer and an enterprising one at that. I am afraid I don’t have a good answer, Harry. Sirius liked both men and women. He liked women better. Your father and I were only ever attracted to women.”

“Yes, well, it is only that I have had great experiences with women, but it felt more natural with a man. I know I am not gay. I am not attracted to any other man. This was more of a freak accident.”

Remus turned to face him, clasped his hands, and said solemnly, “Have you considered that it might be more than just the sex? If you don’t like men that way, there must be something special about this man that you are attracted to.”

Harry stared at him in shock before quickly saying, “No way, Remus. No way. Besides, I am only a teenager. Sex is all I care about.” 

“Your parents married right out of school,” Remus said sternly. “Don’t think that you aren’t capable of deep attachment at this age. They were. And you certainly are mature beyond your years.”

Harry did not reply, horrified. He tried to think of any tender emotion he might have felt during sex. He could not come up with any. Relieved, he sighed. It was probably the bond’s doing. 

“Not Ron, I take it?”

“No!” Harry said, blushing. 

“Someone older. You used the word man. Not a teacher, I hope?” Remus’s voice was stern.

“Not a teacher. Not that boring.”

“Watch it, Harry! I was a teacher once!” Remus said, laughing openly. 

For an instant, Harry was happy and let down his guard, laughing with Remus as they shared anecdotes about Remus’s teaching days. It had been so long ago, Harry reflected, as he walked back alone to Gryffindor tower. The scars on his chest chafed against his shirt, reminding him of at least one thing that had changed.

Harry did his best not to look at his scars. Avoidance had worked for him in the past. It would do so again, he was sure.

——

“Do you ever get out of here?” Harry asked as they lay spent on Voldemort’s bed.

“I aired out the parlour,” Voldemort replied. 

“I hope you are joking,” Harry said, turning to face the man. “I am not sure if I am worried about you airing out a room or about that you left here only to do that.”

“Worried?” Voldemort asked carefully. “That is a dangerous word. You might want to rethink it.”

“I don’t want to,” Harry said firmly. “I am worried. I come here regularly with have sex with you. If you go mad here from being cooped up, I will be affected.”

“You are mentally recovered enough to have sex with others now,” Voldemort told him, eyes wary. 

“I haven’t wanted to try,” Harry said truthfully, deciding not to be offended by the harsh judgement. What would it serve? Voldemort was usually right. When he was wrong, Dumbledore was right. Caught between them, Harry was never going to keep his self-esteem if he worried about what they said.

“I am not cooped up here,” Voldemort said finally, deciding to get it over with before Harry could badger him more. 

Harry knew theirs was a weird arrangement. Voldemort was terrible at talking, more so than Harry himself was, and Harry won no prizes for it. 

“I heard that nobody has seen you in ages,” Harry pressed on. 

“It only means that Dumbledore’s spies hasn’t seen me in ages,” Voldemort replied with some asperity. “What is bothering you, Harry? Worried that I am a figment of your imagination?” 

“In that case, I would worry about my imagination more,” Harry snapped, turning to the other side to face away. 

Why are Voldemort hiding here? Why did he have those scars? Harry wanted so many answers, and he knew that Voldemort would not give him a single one.

“Don’t sulk in my bed,” Voldemort demanded. He reached over and dropped Harry’s wand on him. “Here, take this, and go back to school to finish your sulk.”

Harry knew he ought to do that. Voldemort’s temper was foul and Harry knew his own mood was strange. Best to leave before things escalated. He opened his mouth to have a parting shot, but took a deep breath, grabbed his wand, and went back. 

The next time Harry turned up in Voldemort’s bedroom, they carried on as if nothing had happened. It drove Harry spare, but he did not know what could be done about it. He had other things on his mind. Ron had told him that Malfoy had been marked the previous weekend, along with many of their peers in Slytherin and Ravenclaw. Voldemort must have been present at least for the Marking ceremony, right?

The house shook then. Harry stumbled onto Voldemort who steadied him with one hand while making complicated motions with his other. 

“What is it?” Harry asked, rising up into a sitting position. Spell-light ricochetted off the window pane, green and deadly. 

“Aurors!” Voldemort spat. “The wards will hold for a few minutes, but you must leave.”

“What?” Harry asked, shocked, before his mind caught up. Right, he could not be seen here. Then Voldemort’s eyes rolled up into his head and he was the one clutching Harry to steady himself.

“They have got Unspeakables bringing up wards around mine. Get out of here. I have to fight out.” 

Voldemort had recovered, quickly running to the wardrobe and pulling out a set of woollen robes. Harry could smell something burning outside. 

“Can’t you come with me?” Harry asked, getting up and dressing quickly. “Let the portkey get us out?”

“It is tuned only to you, for safety reasons,” Voldemort murmured distractedly, looking about for his wand. 

Harry took a deep breath and summoned it using his wand, before tossing it over to Voldemort. They stared at each other for a second before the sound of trees crashing down made Voldemort wince.

Harry rushed to press a kiss to the man before grabbing his wand and leaving. The more he delayed, the more he cost Voldemort, he knew. 

He made his way down to the Common Room once he had reached his dormitory. There were groups of people huddled around, as if in anticipation of news.

“Harry!” Ron called him over. “The Aurors have cornered You Know Who! Somewhere in Derbyshire!” 

It had been bloody Derbyshire. Harry did his best to make the appropriate sounds of surprise and shock when Ron exultantly gave him all the news they had so far. Hermione looked nervous and excited and hopeful.

“Maybe we will have a free world to walk into after we graduate, after all,” she whispered. 

“Is Dumbledore there?” Harry asked. Ron frowned, clearly expecting more enthusing from Harry’s side. “I would feel better about our chances if Dumbledore was there, Ron.”

Ron nodded seriously. Hermione said nobody knew. 

“This is stressful. I am going for a walk,” Harry said, and quickly escaped before they could grab him.

It was stressful. Harry’s walk took him to the Astronomy tower. He waited there, until daybreak, until he saw Dumbledore and Snape walking up the path to the Great Hall, intact and unbloodied. The bond was closed to him. He suspected Voldemort had not wanted any distraction while he was fighting out of that siege. 

“Harry?” 

It was Hermione. 

“Yes?” 

“Have you been up here all night? You must be freezing.” She briskly brought a kerchief to wipe his cheeks. Oh, had he been crying?

“Any news?”

“I am sorry, Harry.” She bit her lip. “He massacred his way out of there, past the wards, and Apparated.”

Harry found himself crying again. Hermione hugged him and Harry was glad for the warmth.

“Sixty-two died,” she continued. “It is all in the Prophet. It was horrible, Harry.” Then she seemed to cheer up and said, “They wounded him, I heard. He was bleeding badly when he escaped. Maybe he will die,” she ended on a hopeful note.

Harry’s first instinct was to explore their bond, which was still dormant and blocked.

“Harry, Miss Granger, Good morning!” Dumbledore said as he joined them. Harry noted that the Professor’s eyes were weary but sharp. Dumbledore was wearing those navy robes he favoured for long journeys and for duels. 

“Are you going to finish him off?” Harry asked and was dismayed at how broken his voice was.

“Death is his language, not mine,” Dumbledore said reprovingly. “I do wish to find him. What does the bond tell you?”

“Nothing,” Harry said softly. “He could be dead already.” 

Harry felt Dumbledore’s mind exploring, until it retreated, satisfied, in knowing that he spoke the truth. Harry took a deep breath to calm down. He would do the same, if their positions were reversed. Dumbledore was only being careful.

“I don’t think he will die so easily. He has survived worse.”

“Doesn’t Professor Snape know?”

“The Death Eaters have been Summoned, to the Lestrange manor. Professor Snape has not returned yet.”

“I will come to you if I sense anything,” Harry promised. Dumbledore nodded and left. 

“I am going to catch up on sleep, Hermione,” he told his friend, wanting her to believe and let him be, badly. She seemed tired and just nodded, muttering something about being late to her Arithmancy class.

They parted in the Common Room. Harry walked up the stairs, trying his best to keep his breathing level. Then he changed his path, got his Invisibility Cloak, and rushed to the Hospital Wing, where he stole three bottles of SkeleGro. Then he ran back to his dormitory. Once he reached his four-poster, in the safety of the empty dormitory, he tried the bond again and again, and failing after the umpteenth time, gave in to his tears. 

Harry clutched his wand, wondering where the bastard had ended up, wondering if he needed help, wondering if Dumbledore would hunt him down before he got to safety, wondering it the Death Eaters might sell him out to the Ministry. His wand reverberated in his hand and Harry stared at it in incomprehension, for he knew the portkey was being activated. 

He ended up somewhere rocky and cold, and his eardrums were pounded by the sound of waves crashing over rocks. He was in a ruin, roofless and ancient and small. His wand had flown from his hand the moment he had landed, and he knew someone with such sharp reflexes.

“You aren’t dead yet,” he muttered, getting up.

“And you did end up on the Isle of Man, after all,” Voldemort said softly, carefully, as if speaking louder might cause him pain.

“A spell caught me in my left lung, tore through,” he continued. “If you want me to participate in conversation, you will have to wait until my healing spells have finished.”

“Stop talking, then,” Harry snapped, and inspected the man in the morning light. There was blood all over the torn and burnt robes. By the careful way that Voldemort sat against the walls of the ruin, Harry suspected that there must be at least a broken rib. He shoved the bottles of Skele Gro he had brought into Voldemort’s lap. 

“Dumbledore is out to find you,” Harry said tersely. “You should find a better hiding place.”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow in amusement, but said nothing. Harry sighed and walked around the small ruin, trying to gauge the age of it. He remembered studying about the historical importance of the Isle of Man, but he could not remember the details. 

“Where were your bloody Death Eaters anyway? Didn’t you have any guarding your house? And in bloody Derbyshire, of all places! Didn’t you know there was an Auror station right in the middle of the county?” 

This was Harry’s chance to vent. Voldemort could not speak, after all. 

“And why did you close the bond? Yes, I can understand why when you were fighting for your life. After you got here, to safety, you could have let me know you were alive! No, I had to hear from Dumbledore, from the Daily Prophet!”

“All that grandstanding too! One might think you were invincible!” Harry fumed. “And look where that got you? On the bloody Isle of Man, with a torn lung and broken bones, nursing your wounds alone. You don’t need a prophecy hero to kill you. You don’t need Dumbledore to kill you! You don’t need Grindelwald to kill you! You can manage that all by yourself!” 

Something batted his left ear. Harry huffed and turned, to find a posy of purple wildflowers floating in the air. 

“You are insane,” Harry said fervently, catching the flowers and smelling their sweet fragrance. They still bore the scent of the ocean, shone with dew drops, and were cold to the touch. 

“We both are,” Voldemort said peaceably, looking much mended after his spells had finished working. “This is St. Michael’s chapel, Harry. From the 12th century, though they say there was an older worship site here before that.”

“Are we safe here?” 

“I am safe enough. You are going back,” Voldemort said sharply. “We are not lovers from rival families trysting, Harry. We are either side of a damned prophecy, and even if we set it aside, nobody else will. You cannot be found with me. Why do you think it took me so long to fight out of that death-trap yesterday? I had to first cast spells to destroy every trace of you, of your remarkable magic, before I could leave. The Aurors might not have seen it, but Dumbledore would have immediately noticed if he had examined the place, had I not incinerated every trace of you.” 

“Can you even hear yourself?” Harry shouted. “You are talking about hiding my traces as if I were a dirty secret. It was not important. Why would you care? It was more important to get out!”

“Do you think I care if I have a dirty secret?” Voldemort roared. “I cared that you wouldn’t have one! The press would have a field day with you if this came out. And can you imagine what it would mean to Grindelwald? You are a wanted man just as I am! Even if you don’t care about any of that, don’t you care about what your mentors and friends will think?”

“I have spent enough nights worrying about that!” Harry shouted back, fighting to be heard over the sounds of the ocean. “I don’t care. I am not afraid of Grindelwald or the Ministry or the press! I lived with the Dursleys in a cupboard for ten years, Voldemort!” There, it was the first time he had used the bloody name after sleeping with the man. The sky did not come crashing down upon him. “I care very little about what others think of me! I love my friends, I love Dumbledore, but I will never, never put what they think of me above your safety.”

“Harry, you don’t mean that.” 

“Shut up!” Harry said, wiping off the tears from his cheeks. “Just shut up. If you wanted me to not mean that, you should have left me to die drugged in that hell-hole.” He wanted to go embrace the man, but he was frightened of the blood. So much blood. This was the man who had slaughtered sixty men the previous day. This was the man who had killed Harry’s parents both.

“I have to address a meeting in an hour,” Voldemort said wearily, taking off his robes. Harry winced on seeing the dark ridges left by the spell that had torn through the left lung. It would leave no mark, Harry knew, unlike the other scars that were on Voldemort’s torso. “I am off to take a dip in a nearby inlet to wash the blood off. Will you join me? I promise not to touch you until I am clean of blood.” 

“I can’t swim,” Harry said, following Voldemort anyway. “Do you have Gillyweed?”

“You won’t need that,” Voldemort murmured. “I will tether you to me with a spell.”

Harry wanted to say that he was tethered to Voldemort anyway by curse and wand and blood, but thought better of it. 

Voldemort’s body turned cold easily, Harry knew that. And the man liked sleeping under a mountain of blankets. So Harry was surprised that he dared walk naked on an island in the cold wind, pelted by the ocean spray, shivering but still willing. Then again, Harry reflected, remembering the mad night when he had been allowed to tie the man up, what Voldemort liked to have and what he chose to bear were often very different. 

Harry did enjoy his swim in the inlet, exulting in the cold water, lazing about in a float as Voldemort cleaned off the blood and grime with painstaking carefulness. Harry did not sink. Laughing, he made his way to Voldemort. 

“I will need to make a fresh batch of soap,” Voldemort said. 

“I will buy you some,” Harry promised.

“I like making my soap, Harry,” Voldemort replied, though there was a wry twist of amusement at the corner of his lips. “It is very kind of you to offer, nonetheless.” 

“You were trying to protect my honour,” Harry said, laughing. The devil was in him, because he tried splashing water at his companion. Voldemort ignored him with great patience. “I must buy you something for that noble act.”

“The normal response to an act of chivalry is to put out some,” Voldemort suggested, pulling Harry close and kissing him. There, with the sun beating down upon them, with the ocean around them, with the birds dotted against the rocks, Harry felt that they were normal. 

“I am ready,” Harry breathed, forgetting his scars thanks to how Voldemort’s eyes appraised him. “How do you want me?”

“I have turned you into such a harlot,” Voldemort muttered. “In the interests of my still healing lung, I have to advise against such an adventure right now.”

“Are you planning to head back to your meeting naked?” Harry asked, with prurient interest, taking in Voldemort’s form with a liberty he often did not have in the dimly lit environ of Voldemort’s bedroom.

“Oh, Harry, you don’t think I came here for the climate, did you?” Voldemort asked, laughing, and Harry had never seen him so carefree. Overwhelmed, he leaned across to kiss the man. Voldemort broke away, dragged him out of the water, and led him back to the chapel. With a few murmured words, he uncovered a Wizarding Space in a corner, full of robes and books and candles and quills. 

“I hope that it is your luck and not mine which protects your memories from Dumbledore,” Voldemort muttered, taking out a robe and slipping into it. “I might advise Occlumency, but that would only make him suspicious.”

Harry smiled, as he put his clothes back on. He was luckier than Voldemort, usually, but he still would be careful around Dumbledore. 

“Go on,” Voldemort said. “Try the port-key.” 

Harry felt wounded. Didn’t Voldemort even want a parting kiss? Harry wanted one! He did not want to pick a quarrel over that when they were getting along reasonably well, so he took his wand and concentrated. It shook in his hands, but left him where he was.

“It is not working anymore.”

“I am afraid it is working in a way we had not intended. Magic is a strange creature, Harry. It often interprets spells verbally, when it chooses to.”

Harry frowned. What had Voldemort said when he had made the port-key? That it would bring him where he belonged. At the time, he had thought it strange that Voldemort had not spelled it to port him to Hogwarts. Where he belonged - Harry felt a gasp escape him. Voldemort was staring at him with what looked like concern. Harry shook his head and offered a weak smile. 

“It is a powerful spell,” Voldemort said with a sigh. “I cannot undo it now, Harry. Try not to use it until we change the spell, or until it changes its mind about where you belong. I can make you another port-key.”

So Harry got back to his dormitory with his posy of wild-flowers which had served as a last-minute candidate for a port-key. Harry chewed his lip. Voldemort had explicitly asked him to burn the flowers, in the fear that Dumbledore might sense his magic on them. Harry wondered if he could transfigure them into something else. Then he realized it would make things worse if Dumbledore noticed his magic over Voldemort’s. With a deep breath, Harry kissed the flowers and then incinerated them. It left him feeling hollow, but he took comfort in having made the best decision he could, under the circumstances. They would never have more, would they? Harry remembered what Voldemort had said, about how others would never forget the prophecy even if Harry and Voldemort set it aside.


	6. Ye who belong

The next week was busy, as Harry sat his Auror entrance examination. He did unexpectedly well, but he was not too concerned about the exams. A good portion of what should have been his Seventh Year, when he had spent the school year at the Weasleys, had been spent revising for the Auror examinations. Harry and Ron had sat in Ron’s small room, quizzing each other for hours on end. He had not brushed up on his studies recently, but he did not overly care. He could retake them, after all. 

The bond was normal, and it settled Harry. Strange that Voldemort was Harry’s only constancy. Even Hogwarts would stop being a constant, after they left the school.

“And the Dark Lord has granted us a great honour!” Malfoy was prattling away, surrounded by his minions. 

Had Voldemort made Malfoy Manor his residence then? Harry found it difficult to imagine the man in the opulence of that mansion. He had half-expected Voldemort to take up residence in that abandoned chapel on the Isle of Man. He sighed. He could not afford to sneak about if Malfoy Manor was where Voldemort had set up camp. It was too dangerous. He had once trusted Voldemort to be ruthlessly efficient, but the Auror attack had shaken Harry’s faith. Added to that, Voldemort’s newfound interest in maintaining Harry’s reputation was even more alarming. Harry wanted it all to go back to their old and predictable rounds of sex.

“Will you be my best man?” Ron asked him that night.

“Ron! You finally asked her?” Harry shouted, laughing in happiness for his best friends. “Oh, Ron, finally!”

Ron blushed and stuttered out the story of his proposal. It was all very normal and beautiful and something Harry suspected he would not find in his life, even if the whole Voldemort business ended. 

“I just knew that I belonged with her, you know,” Ron was saying.

“Belonged?” Harry asked, distractedly, thinking of the port-key spell gone wrong.

“Yes, if I died today, I would want hers to be the last face I see. If something happened, I would want to immediately go find her first, before anything else. Belonging, I think. It is what my parents have, what Bill and Fleur have.”

“I am so happy for you,” Harry said honestly, but from the pity and concern on Ron’s face, there was something more to Harry’s expression accidentally.

“You will find it too,” Ron promised. “She will help you forget all the stuff which happened to you this summer.”

Harry sighed. 

“Or a bloke,” Ron said quietly. “It doesn’t matter, does it?”

It did matter, Harry thought despondently, thinking back to how that bloody wand now only took him to Voldemort, thinking back to the ferocity of their kisses in that ocean cove, thinking back to the posy of flowers he had to burn. Before all of that, there had been a man who had possessed Harry’s drugged body and killed his tormentors, a man who had Obliviated Harry’s worst memories, a man so afraid to be vulnerable who had still let Harry tie him up, a man who had made soap in his bathroom, a man who had talked about his childhood’s grief without much bitterness. He swallowed. 

“Is there someone?” Ron asked him gently. 

Oh, how Harry wanted to confide in Ron. In an ideal world, Harry would be in love with Ginny, and his children would fall in love with Ron’s and Hermione’s children. In a less ideal world, Harry would be in love with some other girl, but it would all still be fine. It might be even a bloke and that would be all right too. In this world, Harry was not in love, but he was tethered to a man, of whom the less said about the better. 

Then a phoenix quill fell onto Harry’s bed, and on it was tied a scroll. It was Dumbledore, wanting to see him urgently. Ron made a sympathetic noise. Harry gave him a wan smile and trudged off, trying to shore up his mind. 

Dumbledore sat there in his office, behind his great desk, on which was a familiar Pensieve swirling with a memory.

“This one was obtained with great difficulty,” he murmured, waving Harry in, bidding him to come closer.

Harry had not seen a memory of Riddle in a long time. He shored up his mind as best as he could, grabbed Dumbledore’s hand, and dunked his head into the Pensieve, hoping that it was just one of Riddle fucking somebody at school. The rest of Riddle’s doings were going to be more unpleasant to watch, Harry was sure, knowing how deep in dark magic the boy had meddled even at school.

This was of Riddle, fucking, but differently than usual. He looked older, for one. His partner was enthusiastic, as Riddle’s partners all were. They made a handsome pair, Riddle’s black hair contrasting sharply with the man’s golden mane, Riddle’s thin and wiry frame (unscarred, Harry noted) against the man’s fine musculature. There was care in Riddle’s movements, more care than he usually exhibited in these memories. Fascinated despite himself, Harry watched. 

“Why can’t you be rougher?” his partner complained. 

“Hush,” Riddle murmured, much in the same way he silenced Harry when Harry complained. “Rough sex is more pleasant to fantasize about than to indulge in, Abraxas.” 

“You are so good to me,” the man beneath Riddle said with a sigh, after they had fallen into orgasm together. 

“And you are a careless man,” Riddle muttered, tweaking his partner’s ears. “Stay out of Mad-Eye’s path. That is an order.”

There was a gasp from the corner where Harry was standing. He turned to look at a small woman, dainty-looking and well-dressed, staring at the couple in horror. 

“Eloise!” The man called out, alarmed. 

“Let me deal with her,” Riddle said sharply, rising from bed, wand in hand. 

“Don’t hurt her!” The man implored, coming to him and daring to place a hand on Riddle’s shoulder. Harry thought that the next breath would be the man’s last, but Riddle only sighed and let his fingers come back to gently clasp the man’s hand and give it a squeeze. 

“I let her live, Abraxas. What more can you ask of me?”

Then there was darkness, and Harry was swirling away, until he found himself in Dumbledore’s office.

“This was different,” Harry gave his opinion, as he knew Dumbledore expected him to. 

“Tom Riddle was fascinated by Abraxas Malfoy, or so the gossip-mills during their schooldays said,” Dumbledore said, resting his chin over his steepled fingers. “Mr. Malfoy married. After his death, after Voldemort’s fall, Eloise was admitted to St. Mungo’s. Her memories had been tampered with often.” 

“Did they-?” Harry cleared his throat, trying to be impersonal and useful. He could relive the memory later, in the privacy of his bed, and think about why he hated the blonde prat. “Did they do that until Abraxas’s death?”

“Nobody knows, but Eloise’s memory was last tampered with in 1972, based on what I could discern.”

“He must have liked Abraxas a great deal,” Harry said carefully. 

“So everyone thought, but Mr. Malfoy died in a grisly manner in his manor’s stables. Many suspected dark magic. I think Voldemort had a part in his death, Harry. Obsession often leads to impulsive, ill-thought actions, as we saw in the case of his own mother.”

That night, Harry did not find sleep, mulling over how Riddle’s shoulders had slumped when Abraxas had interceded on his wife’s behalf. At three in the morning, he clutched his wand and closed his eyes, wanting to be taken away for a few hours from the heaviness of it all.

Voldemort’s bedroom was dark. Harry wondered where it was. Malfoy Manor? He did not care right then. He stumbled across to the bed, where Voldemort’s form lay asleep. Harry snuck under the blankets and moved close to the sleep-warm body. 

He found himself kissed awake in the late morning.

“You should return,” Voldemort said. “You should have woken me last night if you desired sex or conversation, Harry.”

Harry had not particularly wanted either, not after watching that memory. He had just wanted to get away from it. As Voldemort’s fingers tried to coax Harry’s hair into a state of respectability, Harry sighed and said, “Dumbledore thinks you killed Abraxas Malfoy.”

So far, Harry had kept the jealousy at bay by drawing a strict distinction between the Riddle of the memories and the Voldemort he had sexual dealings with. Now the line was blurring, and Harry found it unexpectedly difficult to contain his anger and jealousy.

Voldemort’s fingers in Harry’s hair stilled and he said quietly, “He killed himself. He made a choice, you see, between what he had with me, and what he wanted - the respect and love of his family. He was torn between his notions of masculinity and his desire for me, until he made that choice. Unfortunately for him, I never let him forget that. I favoured the Blacks and the Lestranges more. He took the slight seriously. And over the years, he sought to revoke his choice. I didn’t yield, and that fed his turmoil more. In his own way, I suspect he was quite fond of me. One thought led to another, and before any of us knew it, he had decided to end his life in his stables, amidst his beloved racing steeds.”

What a tragic tale, Harry thought. Dumbledore had thought that Riddle had only been obsessed. Voldemort’s side of the story had been rather different. Harry suspected the truth was somewhere between what Dumbledore and Voldemort had told him.

“I could see that you were fond of him too,” Harry said carefully, needing the words to be spoken, though he was afraid of the reaction.

“My predilection to be fond of eminently heterosexual men is a character failing, doubtless.”

“I don’t think I am gay, if that is what you were referring to,” Harry said wryly. 

“Luckily for me, you are Harry, our hero, so full of heart,” Voldemort murmured sleepily, drawing closer. 

Harry was lucky too, he felt, for the first time, hearing those words. In some ways, Harry knew that dealing with Voldemort was easier. The man did not play games of manipulation unlike Ginny. What he said was usually worth taking at face value. 

“And you like me in catsuits.”

“There is that too,” Voldemort agreed. 

Harry remembered how Riddle’s shoulders had slumped when Abraxas had interceded on his wife’s behalf. A choice, Voldemort had said. Harry suspected that it was a choice Riddle had fought against for a very long time, until he had lost. Riddle had not succumbed to using the Imperius or a potion to get his lover back, unlike his mother. 

With fresh resolution, he kissed Voldemort and made his way back to Hogwarts with the proffered port-key. 

He had some soap to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing is prone to rambling; so I apologise for that.


	7. On lye

It was actually fun. There was rosemary and fennel, and on a last-minute impulse, Harry owl-ordered wild-flowers from the Isle of Man, carefully dried them, and added them to his soap ingredients. 

He could sense Voldemort’s curiosity brimming over. Harry had stayed put for a month, spending his time studying for the NEWTs, accompanying Dumbledore on more Pensieve trips, playing Wizarding Chess with Ron and losing each time, and testing out the twins’ new products. 

He even wrote a long letter to Lupin. It was the longest letter he had ever written, but he felt it necessary. Lupin had come all the way from France, just in case Harry might need to talk to him about what had happened. His father had great friends, Harry knew, just as he himself was lucky to have Ron and Hermione. Harry’s thoughts led him to Voldemort and Abraxas, and he wondered if they had been friends back in school. Harry suspected he would never suss out the truth of it, but he thought it likely that young Riddle had actually desired the other boy’s company without any ulterior motive.

——

Harry placed the neatly packaged bars of soap on Voldemort’s bed. The man was in the bath. Smiling at his own daring, Harry took a bar of soap and entered the bathroom. Voldemort’s eyes flared in pleasure upon seeing Harry.

“I see you have not forgotten me,” he said, pleased, and offered Harry a hand. Harry took it and entered the tub. Straddling Voldemort, he brought his cake of soap to the man’s wet chest and began rubbing.

“Harry?” Voldemort asked. Then he took a deep breath, inhaled the fragrance, and asked wonderingly, “However did you get those flowers?”

“I can be resourceful,” Harry said smugly, drawing the soap down Voldemort’s shoulders. “Do I get a reward?” 

“My pleasure is not sufficient?” Voldemort asked, laughing. His laughter broke into a gasp when Harry ran a soapy hand along his cock. 

“You must have a more interesting idea,” Harry coaxed.

Voldemort’s eyes sparkled and he nodded. 

So they soon found themselves in bed. Voldemort had a glint in his eye as he commanded, “You must do exactly as I do. No questions asked.”

Do as I do? Harry wondered what that meant. Usually, the directive was to obey every word. 

He soon found out, sprawled under Voldemort, face right under Voldemort’s cock, just as his cock was under Voldemort’s mouth.

“Soixante-neuf is another schoolboy tradition that Hogwarts apparently no longer includes in its curriculum,” Voldemort said, breathing over Harry’s cock. 

Harry’s French was good enough to understand the word. He blushed. Here he had thought himself to be completely resistant to all innuendo. 69; Harry had not thought that anyone actually did that outside Ron’s dirty magazines and Dudley’s videos stashed under his bed,

“Do as I do,” Voldemort directed him once more, and licked a stripe down Harry’s cock.

It was a lot of fun, Harry found, to drive each other insane with lust. They had both a competitive streak that came to the fore as they attempted to draw stronger and stronger reactions from each other. Then Voldemort upped the game, trailing a single finger down Harry’s perineum, to rest gently upon his arse-hole. Harry hesitated. Voldemort lifted his mouth off Harry’s cock and turned to give him a smug look. Oh, that did it! Harry licked a finger and matched Voldemort’s gesture, pressing the pad of his finger against the heat that parted for him. Voldemort inhaled sharply and Harry grinned happily. He did not venture any further, instead choosing to devote his focus to Voldemort’s cock and balls. Voldemort slipped in a finger, and then two, driving Harry into a frenzy. Harry came first, as he usually did. Then Voldemort fucked him, with long, leisurely strokes, for what seemed like hours, until Harry came again stimulated only by Voldemort’s cock spurting seed deep inside him.

Later, as they lazed about, smelling of rosemary and fennel and wildflowers, Voldemort pointed out, “You did not do as I did.”

“I know,” Harry said, still grinning as he thought of it. “I wanted to do more. I want to do more. I also want you to ask for what you want me to do, openly and clearly.”

Voldemort looked intrigued. Harry knew he had done the right thing. It was difficult bringing novelty from his side, given his inexperience, but he delighted whenever he managed to bring something new into their sex life.

Harry knew with certainty that Voldemort liked being dominant in bed, but he also remembered there were instances when Voldemort found it arousing to let Harry lead.

“I accept,” Voldemort said finally. “On one condition: you must choose the position. I want to know which one you have fantasized about the most.”

“Face to face,” Harry replied easily. “I love looking at you during sex.”

Voldemort looked at a loss for a reply. Harry laughed and pulled him into a lazy kiss. It was all right. They were mad, and Harry knew it would all come down crashing upon his head soon enough, but it was all right just then, with Voldemort yielding sweetly to Harry’s tongue and letting him plunder at will. 

—— 

Harry did his research. He knew that this was a rare chance, and he wanted to do everything right. Voldemort was a careful, attentive lover, and would certainly not be pleased with anything else from a dominant partner during sex. Harry knew his stamina was poor, and he was only eighteen, but that did not matter. He had to do this right. 

“Are you thinking about the NEWTs?” Hermione asked him over breakfast, briefly glancing up from her Charms textbook. 

Ron had tried to stop her revising at meals, with little success. Ron had also whined about how she had refused to have sex until her exam revision was done. Knowing her, Harry felt Ron was in for a dry run until the exams were over and until she had found a job. 

“I am thinking of the Auror exam,” Harry told her, buttering his toast, and wondering he could buy those fragrant candles that he liked and that he hoped Voldemort too might come around to like. 

“You are very good at Defence,” Hermione said encouragingly. “You will have done well. I am more worried about Ron.”

“I am right here!” Ron said indignantly. “And it is all right if I can’t be an Auror, Hermione. I will help the twins.”

Hermione sniffed in disapproval but Harry grinned at him encouragingly. Harry was impressed by how fast Ron had matured after their Sixth Year. The relationship with Hermione had done him a world of good. Relationships did that, didn’t they? Harry had heard the same about James after he had started going out with Lily. And look at Tonks, who had become slightly more responsible after starting to live with Remus. Perhaps Sirius had needed a relationship to rein him in. Harry sipped his tea carefully and thought about himself. Sex had first turned him reckless and foolish, and then it had been a huge crutch during his recovery, and now it was just something that was a part of his life. Had he become a better person? Harry doubted it. Sleeping with Voldemort was unlikely to be good for anyone’s ticket to heaven. He suppressed a blush as he thought of their next engagement. 

Candles, he told himself. Lots of candles, perhaps smelling of rosemary and fennel and the flowers of the Isle of Mann. Voldemort might laugh him out of the room, but Harry was reasonably sure that the man would be curious enough to try it at least once. Besides, Harry could not think of a single occasion where Voldemort had said no to an idea Harry had wanted to try. 

“Sometimes I feel as if I just handed my life over to her,” Ron was saying glumly. Hermione had rushed off to revise in her dormitory, in the hour she had free before Runes. “She plans everything I should do, to the last detail.”

Harry wiggled his eyebrows. Ron scowled and replied, “Yes, in bed too. She is as bossy as the Muggle Prime Minister whose poster she has over her bed.” 

Thatcher? Harry grinned. Hermione was much more virtuous than that woman had been, Harry was sure. Still, there were resemblances.

“Fred and George said that the bossy ones are usually submissive in bed. They are so wrong,” Ron muttered.

They were wrong. Voldemort loved to be obeyed in and out of bed. Harry thought it likely that Voldemort was better at rewarding obedience than Hermione, though. He certainly did not think young Tom Riddle to be the sort that adhered to celibacy during exams. 

“She would kill us both if she heard us having this conversation.” Harry said idly, wiping off the last of the honey from his plate with the last slice of bread he had taken. “Ron, relationships need communication. Maybe you should just tell her to lay off a bit on your career plans.”

“When did you become so wise?”

Harry grinned. He had his answer. He would make his candles. It could not be that difficult, he was sure.


	8. Harry, our hero, so full of grace

“You have picked up so many of my habits,” Voldemort said when Harry arrived and set to placing the candles in different locations around the room. For once, Voldemort was occupied, reading a long scroll and making notes in its margins.

“Maybe,” Harry said peaceably. “Only the good ones, I am sure. Being a hero, I am resistant to your bad habits.”

That earned him a surprised laugh. Harry grinned. He had tried so hard to have everything done right. He had shaved carefully, bathed carefully, trimmed his nails carefully, and even brushed twice. He darted a glance at Voldemort, who seemed to be dressed as usual in a plain set of black robes, but Harry could see that the man was fresh out of the bath. Harry took a deep breath. Voldemort looked up then, and there was a challenge in his gaze, and he asked, “Are you ready, then?” 

“I will be, soon,” Harry said, waving at the candles he was lighting.

“Do you require assistance?” 

“No, stay put. I will come to you.” 

Voldemort fell silent after that, carefully watching Harry. Harry finished lighting his twenty-one candles, and placed his wand on the bedside table. 

“Where is yours?” he asked Voldemort. It was best to keep them somewhere close to the bed, in case there was another attack.

“With me. Let me add a few wards,” Voldemort said, taking his wand and closing his eyes in concentration. Harry took the scrolls from Voldemort’s lap and set them away.

“We are in Hertfordshire,” Voldemort said, passing his wand to Harry, and then a quill. “The quill is port-keyed to take you to Hogwarts if something happens.” 

Harry nodded and placed the quill by their wands. In the flickering light of the many candles, Voldemort’s skin had taken on a richer hue. Harry approached him and kissed him leisurely. 

“Throw back your head,” he murmured. Voldemort did so, and Harry dove down to press kisses to the long line of his neck, laving and suckling, delighting in the red that bloomed along the path of his lips. Voldemort’s hands had come to grip Harry by the shoulders and Harry pushed him down onto the bed, before going to work on opening the robes. To his surprise, he found that there was a layer of underclothing. It was soft to the touch, flowing and warm against Harry’s palm.

“I thought it would make you feel more masculine if I wore underclothes today,” Voldemort murmured, winding his fingers through Harry’s hair. 

“I think I am past that issue,” Harry said, laughing, touched and amused and sad. Voldemort truly had not thought that Harry was still conflicted about his sexual orientation, had he? Then again, his last long-running sexual dalliance had been with the conflicted Malfoy. Harry dragged the drawers down, leaving Voldemort nude.

“Turn over, would you?” 

“I thought you said that you wanted me like this?”

“Do as I say.” 

Their gazes held for a long moment. Harry refused to yield. He had plans! Voldemort’s eyes sparkled in amusement and he nodded, turning over in a single, fluid motion, the grace of which left Harry breathless. He could not resist drawing his fingers down the long line of Voldemort’s spine, and he could not suppress a groan when the flesh arched into his touch.

“Don’t hold back,” he whispered, digging his fingers into the tense muscles at Voldemort’s neck, massaging gently but firmly. “I want to see the pleasure I will bring you tonight.”

Voldemort was quiet, Harry knew, and unlikely to devolve into moans and groans the way Harry did, but Harry still wanted to hear and see evidence. He could, right then, feel the tension slipping away from the flesh he touched. Harry pressed a kiss to the nape. There was a small scar there, and Harry felt his eyebrows rise at the distinctive shape of it. It looked like a knife had sliced out a circle of flesh. 

“Harry,” Voldemort whispered then. And Harry, for once, knew what another person was trying to say without needing words. He moved on, downwards, pressing kisses and lingering with his fingers learning muscle and bone under the skin beneath his hands and mouth. Voldemort shifted restlessly, and Harry delighted on seeing his palms curling into the bedsheets.

Harry did not hesitate when he reached the waistline this time. He confidently placed his hands, one each on an arse-cheek and squeezed them. Voldemort turned to face him, desire fiery in his eyes.

“May I ask? You told me that you wanted me to ask for what I wanted, clearly and openly.”

“Yes, you can,” Harry said with a grin. “If you have words left after this, you can ask for whatever you want.” So saying, he spread the flesh he held in his hands, and dove in to press a kiss to the fluttering hole beneath. 

“Harry!”

Harry did not relent. He was not quite sure on the mechanics of his act, but he suspected that he was not doing too badly going by Voldemort’s Latin exhortations. Voldemort’s cock was rubbing against the sheets, relentlessly, as if needing the friction to stay sane. 

“Stop moving your hips,” Harry said. “I will have to tie you up otherwise.” 

“I don’t want to be tied down,” Voldemort rasped, trying to still his hips but failing deplorably in the effort. 

“Well, then, hold your arse open for me,” Harry directed. “My hands will be then free to hold you down.”

“Harry, Harry,” Voldemort murmured, sounding shocked and dazed and aroused, all at once. “As you wish.” 

Harry almost came at the sight of Voldemort holding himself open, but he calmed himself and brought his hands to grip Voldemort’s hips. Harry worked him open, with lips and tongue, finding himself addicted to the soft, heated channel that parted for him. However, he knew he would not last long, especially if his partner continued those soft groans. He sat up reluctantly. Voldemort seemed well out of it, not even realizing that Harry had stopped, still holding himself open. Smiling, Harry etched the sight into his mind, before placing the pad of his thumb against the wet, twitching hole. Voldemort jerked his hips back, trying to drag the finger in. 

“Ask me,” Harry said, not pushing the finger in, waiting. 

“Stop taunting,” Voldemort said hoarsely. “Fuck me. What I want is your cock in me, fucking me, until you come deep in me.” 

“Turn over.”

Harry had to help him turn over, for Voldemort seemed too disorientated by the pleasure coursing through his veins. When Harry took him, his legs came to wrap themselves around Harry’s waist, drawing him in deeper. Voldemort was as competitive as Harry had expected, clenching around Harry in a bid to make Harry come. Harry tried to make it last, but failed when Voldemort dragged his head down for an uncoordinated, graceless kiss. He was completely wrecked, but he still kept his eyes open to see the unrestrained pleasure on Voldemort’s face. He quickly slid out and placed his hand on Voldemort’s cock.

“End it, Harry. I can’t wait any longer.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry assured him, spreading his legs and watching Harry’s come dribble out of him. It sent a pang of possessiveness through Harry’s body. He placed two fingers at the entrance and coated them in the semen. Then he pushed them into Voldemort, seeking and moving until he found the gland that Voldemort exploited so ruthlessly when giving Harry pleasure.

Voldemort’s torso arched off the bed, like a bow pulled taut, and he came over Harry’s hand. Harry wished that he had been inside Voldemort then, feeling the convulsions around his fingers. Next time, if Voldemort ever let him do this again. He gently dragged his fingers out and then hopped off to the bathroom to get clean towels. Voldemort let him move his limbs as he pleased, seemingly content to luxuriate in the post-coital haze.

“Water?”

“I created a monster.”

“Here, sit up,” Harry told him. “Drink some water. It will all make sense.”

“I doubt that,” Voldemort murmured, looking at Harry with what seemed to be honest amazement. Nobody had ever looked at him like that before. Harry blushed. Voldemort shook his head, saying, “You were fucking me into madness scant moments ago, and now you are blushing.”

As Voldemort sipped the water carefully, Harry watched him and felt a tightness in his stomach, leading up to his chest. Sighing, he pressed a kiss to Voldemort’s temple. Voldemort’s hand shook when he placed the glass on the side-table. 

“It was a pleasure,” he said quietly, turning to hold Harry’s gaze. “Thank you.”

“I am glad,” Harry replied. Why had he ever been tongue-tied? This was easy. This came to him as naturally as breathing did. He knew what to say. He knew what to do. “I wanted to make love to you, carefully and well, as you have taught me by example.”


	9. The fierce and the forsaken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Careful with this one. Possible trigger for murder. Possible trigger for nonconsensual sex. This chapter is a bit rough.

“You really are too frail,” Harry murmured, pulling down the blankets to expose their bodies to the morning sunlight washing through the tall windows onto the bed. Voldemort’s body was a patchwork of red and Harry felt possessive of each mark. 

“In duelling, speed and grace matter. In physical combat, strength matters. I was bothered by the disadvantage, particularly since my childhood malnourishment had lasting consequences, too deep to be fixed by magic.”

“Why didn’t you attempt to get that fixed this time around?”

“I was more malnourished this time,” Voldemort said, laughing wryly. “Why do you think I am sequestered here while Bella is out wreaking havoc? I haven’t recovered fully from those years.”

Something registered in Harry’s mind. Feeling sick, he remembered the evenly spaced scars and the hundreds of little clues he had fretted over, trying to piece together. 

“Oh, God!” 

“Yes, Wormtail decided to have some fun. Barty stopped it once we reached the Crouch’s family home. I was too weak and yet I could be only as strong as Wormtail permitted me to be. He controlled my medicine, my food, every basic need I had. He made me beg, he fed me and then had me suck his fat cock, and then he made me beg for his knife before he would give me my medicine. Cowards like him often get off on these things.”

Harry leapt off the bed and rushed to the window, heaving. Toast came up and tea. And then bile. Then he slid down the wall, and his sobs were too broken and loud for the silence in the room, for the silence in his mind. For the first time since the grave-yard, Harry could not feel Voldemort in his mind at all. Panic seized him and he looked at the bed. Voldemort was still lying prone, face expressionless. 

Harry felt helpless, not knowing what to do or say. He was so clumsy, unlike Ron, who would always know the right thing to do, or unlike Hermione, who would always know the right thing to say. He had thought he knew what to say to Voldemort, finally, only to find that he was wrong. Voldemort had known what to do when Harry had ended up in the traffickers’ clutches. 

“Why didn’t you kill him?” 

“He has his moments of cleverness. I swore an unbreakable vow with him. His assistance was, in the beginning, offered in return for sparing his life, from death at my hands and at the hands of anyone I might command.”

Harry stumbled back to the bed, instinct leading him. Voldemort watched him carefully. 

“I should Obliviate you now, before this tale reaches Dumbledore.”

“I won’t tell Dumbledore!” Harry said, furious. The window pane shattered. 

“Dumbledore is a superb Legilimens,” Voldemort said softly. “I did not expect you to tell him. I only expected him to find out everything you know.” 

“I will learn to Occlude, then,” Harry swore, sitting down on the bed leaving an inch’s space between him and Voldemort, trying to make sense of the turmoil in his head.

He had touched the man as intimately as one can touch another, he had kissed and held him. Voldemort had not hurt him, yet, and Harry suspected that he would not be hurt at all in this room, where Voldemort had taken him to bed as an equal. As an equal, Harry finally realized. Voldemort had been a generous lover, and had let himself be generously made love to, unflinching in both taking and giving. 

“Now you have to keep him close, because he is too dangerous in the wrong hands,” Harry murmured, trying to still work out why Pettigrew was alive.

“There are strong and ancient enchantments binding him down. Still, I expect my run of ill-fortune to continue and no doubt Rita Skeeter will get an interview soon enough of the Dark Lord mewling for cock. With Pensieve memories too, if Dumbledore doesn’t get his hands on them first. He does so love to collect me. And there is always the worst possible outcome, of all of this reaching Grindelwald’s ears. The price on my head is greater than the price on Dumbledore’s, the last I heard.”

Harry’s rage grew and grew, with each word, and the chandelier shook and the doors rattled. Voldemort glared at him. Desperation replaced rage, and Harry let impulse guide his hands to grip Voldemort’s face, bringing them face to face.

As if physically unable to look away, Voldemort held his gaze, lips trembling and eyes murky.

“Dumbledore told me that there are things worse than death. He doesn’t even know what I fear the most, not anymore. I am not afraid to die, Harry. Dumbledore told you that I marked you to kill. He told you that I hate you and fear you. How could I have hate and fear left for anyone else after what Wormtail did to me?” 

And Harry knew what to do. Fate and blood and wand had wound them together, long before kisses and skin had. 

“Dumbledore won’t collect you. Skeeter won’t get her grubby hands on any of this. Grindelwald will not hear of this. Nobody, nobody, will ever hear of this again.” Each word was a vow and Harry could feel the magic bearing down upon them, born of his conviction, born of his desperation. 

“Harry, let it be.”

“As you wish,” Harry lied. There seemed to be much on Voldemort’s mind, because he nodded distractedly and just pulled Harry close.

——

“What have you done, my darling boy?” Dumbledore asked heavily, pulling Harry to him, from the wreckage that Order were trying to sort through.

“I killed him. Someone should have, long ago,” Harry spat, thinking of his parents who had been betrayed, thinking of Sirius losing his sanity in Azkaban, and refusing to think of the man Harry had made love to.

“Harry, death is not ours to deal out,” Dumbledore told him sadly, Apparating them away to the gates of Hogwarts. “Why now? Why, after all these years?”

“I had to, Professor,” Harry said honestly, looking at the blood under his nails. 

He had found that he was remarkably good at flaying a man alive. He had found that he was remarkably good at keeping Voldemort out of the bond. He had found that he did not need a catsuit anymore for killing a man. 

“I have spent all your life trying to ensure you never would have to kill,” Dumbledore murmured. Harry felt a pang of sadness on seeing his mentor’s grief. Dumbledore meant it, Harry knew.

“How did you find him?” Dumbledore asked. The rat had been in Snape’s house, in the most heavily warded room Harry had ever seen, and he had seen Voldemort’s wards so many times.

“I slipped Veritaserum into Professor Snape’s pumpkin-juice,” Harry confessed. 

It had caused him more guilt than the rest of it. Snape had been mostly hands-off after Harry’s summer misadventure, and had even been kind enough to send him books and puzzles every now and then. 

Harry had thought a lot about what Voldemort had said, regarding the ancient enchantments binding Wormtail down. He had suspected the Lestranges or the Malfoys to be holding him. Then Harry had realized that Voldemort would not trust them with such a dangerous prisoner, not when the Aurors or the Order might raid their properties any time. Harry had not actually expected Snape to be sheltering the rat, but had only meant to glean information on its whereabouts. It had been a lucky stroke to have the chase simplified, not that there had been much of a chase. There had only been cowering and screams. Towards the end, the rat had even promised to give Harry the memories he could use to defeat Voldemort. Harry had humoured him, getting the memories into bottles, and then continued with his work.

“Voldemort’s wrath will be immense,” Dumbledore murmured, leading the way up the circular staircase to his office. “Harry, Harry, whatever possessed you?”

Harry gripped his hand and looked up at him. “Professor, have you ever loved someone so fiercely that you would do anything to let them rest in peace?” 

Dumbledore’s shoulders stooped and he nodded. Then he said softly, “That is a dangerous road, Harry, and take an old man’s word for it that it leads nowhere peaceful.”

“I know,” Harry said sadly, feeling the tears streaming down his cheeks. His wand had exulted in his curses. His hands had been steady with the knife. He could blame Voldemort for it all, except that Voldemort had never spoken of murder to him. 

Dumbledore embraced him and Harry collapsed against him, weeping. 

“I am sorry, Harry,” he whispered, stroking Harry’s hair. “I am sorry that you did not come to me.”

“I could not. You wouldn’t let me do that. And I needed to.”

The door opened and Snape rose to greet them. His face looked careworn.

“He called for me. He was furious,” he said without preface. “Albus, He looked quite affected by the news.”

“I can imagine,” Dumbledore said wearily. “He had never expected Harry to do something as drastic as that.”

“Why did you do such a stupid thing?” Snape growled at Harry. “The rat would have died, sooner or later! He was not in the Dark Lord’s good graces. There was no need to go and make a spectacle out of it.”

“I would do it again!” Harry shouted. “For my mother.” 

Snape sagged against the desk and looked lost.

A part of Harry felt sad that he was lying, at least in part. He would do it for his mother, of course, but he had not been there to take vengeance for a dead woman. He had been there for someone living and precious. 

“Damage control,” Dumbledore said briskly. “The Ministry must be fed something appropriate. Call in Remus and Kingsley, please, Severus. Harry, go to your dormitory. Do not tell your friends anything yet. We need to be careful. Cornelius is not too fond of us, is he?”

“I am sorry,” Harry said honestly, facing them both. “I am sorry for the trouble I am causing you. I am not sorry that I killed him.”

“Yes, you have made that abundantly clear,” Dumbledore said with asperity, waving him off. 

——

Harry reached his dormitory and clutched his wand. 

A Stinging hex caught him on his wrist as he landed in Voldemort’s room. He tried to swerve, but the next hex caught him in his abdomen. 

“What madness possessed you?” Voldemort shouted, his face dark with wrath, and his fingers trembling over his wand as if holding back with great effort. And Harry could very well see that he was holding back with great effort. 

Harry reached into his pocket and placed the bottles of memories on the desk. Then he stood back. 

“You cannot go around killing everyone who causes me harm!” Voldemort seethed, staring at the bottles as if they were three-headed monsters. 

“You can kill anyone else,” Harry said flatly. “You could not kill him. Now incinerate them.”

Voldemort hesitated. 

“Do it now,” Harry urged him. “You will never be free of them otherwise.” 

Voldemort cleared his throat, looked away and asked softly, “Did you see them?”

“Only glimpses,” Harry said honestly. The glimpses he had seen had imparted enough cruelty to flay and kill. 

“I am sorry that you saw them,” Voldemort whispered. 

“Destroy them now, please.” 

“May I have your wand?” 

Harry handed it over without thinking. 

“You freed my present. Only fair that your wand frees me from my past,” Voldemort murmured, closing his eyes and chanting a destructive spell that blasted the table and left a hole in the wall.

“I suppose we could always use a new window,” Harry remarked, trying not to weep on seeing the expression on Voldemort’s features. 

Voldemort laughed, and then his shoulders convulsed. Harry rushed to hold him, and together they collapsed to the floor, clinging to each other. Harry’s wand was dropped, his hands were clasped in Voldemort’s, and his face was buried in Voldemort’s chest. He was not sure who was crying. He suspected that it was both of them. 

“Should I Obliviate you?” Voldemort queried. “It cannot have been pleasant.”

“His crime or mine?” Harry asked, trying to stifle his sobs in Voldemort’s robes.

“Either. Both. Whatever you want.”

Harry shook his head.

“What will I do with you?” Voldemort asked thickly. “What will Dumbledore do with you?”

“Foiling both your plans in one fell swoop,” Harry said with a weak laugh. “Serves you both right. Control-freaks.” 

——


	10. Pyramus and Thisbe

——

Harry cancelled his Auror application. Dumbledore was the only one who did not ask him why. Harry knew that he never wanted to chase anyone down, to duel them, to kill them. He felt terribly guilty that Dumbledore had spun a cover for Wormtail’s murder. The Daily Prophet was full of flashing headlines detailing the grisly manner in which the rat had been killed. 

“Must be Grindelwald’s work!” Hermione said, as they sat together by the Lake. “I wanted Pettigrew to be brought to justice, so that Sirius’s name could be cleared.”

“Sirius is dead,” Ron said sharply. “It won’t matter to him now.”

“Ron!” Hermione hissed, glancing at Harry. 

“Harry, how are you holding up?” Ron asked. “You haven’t said anything about the murder at all.”

Harry took a deep breath and said, “I am glad he is dead, Ron.”

“Whoever killed him must have really hated him,” Ron said. “Who do you think it could be?” 

“He had earned the hate of many people, on all sides of the war,” Harry replied, keeping his eyes on the flashing headlines of the Prophet. “It could be anyone, I guess.”

“Do you think You Know Who will unleash a set of attacks to warn people?” Hermione asked nervously. “Pettigrew was one of his Death Eaters, after all.”

“I bet he is just glad to have Wormtail dead and out of his way,” Ron commented. 

——

“How are you faring, Harry?”

“I am fine.”

“Mr. Weasley is worried about your night-time wandering.”

“It helps me to sleep better, wandering the castle at nights,” Harry lied glibly. 

“Strange then that neither Professor Snape nor I have seen any evidence of your wandering, is it not?”

“I have a lot of experience,” Harry said, staring at Dumbledore with rising worry. 

“True, true. Indulge an old man, Harry. May I have your wand?” 

Harry handed it over to Dumbledore. Dumbledore held his gaze as he ran his own elderwood stick over Harry’s wand. 

“Curious, most curious.”

Harry held his gaze, wiping the sweat off his palms on his robes. 

“I wonder where this port-key will take you to?”

The cat was out of the bag, then. They stared at each other, separated by the large desk, and Fawkes trilled in worry. 

“It will take me to where I belong, Professor,” Harry said, and he was proud that his voice did not break from the terror in his heart. 

Dumbledore had his wand. He could not escape. Would he, even if he could? He belonged to Dumbledore much as he belonged to Voldemort. He could not desert Dumbledore, even though he would not willingly give up Voldemort. He would protect his friends to his death, he knew, just as he would protect the man he had somehow ended up with a port-key to. For the first time, he actually felt sympathetic towards Snape’s position in this war. 

“The time has come to tell you of something I had wished you were spared from ever knowing,” Dumbledore said softly, placing Harry’s wand back on the table.

“Is it about why he cannot die easily?” Harry asked, a sinking feeling in his gut. He had suspected there might be something sinister about that. Voldemort had evaded the topic each time Harry had alluded to it. Dumbledore had never spoken of it.

“Have you ever heard of a Horcrux, Harry?” 

—-

Harry felt as sick as he had when Voldemort had told him of Wormtail’s malice. Splitting his soul with a kill? Dear God. He knew the man was sick, of course. He would have to be blind not to forget that.

“I have been seeking them and destroying them, Harry,” Dumbledore said seriously. 

“He doesn’t know,” Harry stated. It was brilliant, really. Voldemort was so confident that he could predict Dumbledore that he had overlooked this entirely. Voldemort was focussed on Grindelwald’s invasion, and had expected Dumbledore to be concerned with the same matter.

“No.”

“I won’t say anything about what you are doing,” Harry said. “He will know that I know of the existence of these Horcruxes, though. I am not good at hiding anything in my mind, as Snape and Voldemort and you all know by now.”

“On the contrary, Harry, I had failed to see your…liaison. I wonder, and forgive an old man’s curiosity, how exactly it came about?” Dumbledore’s voice was stern and Harry knew an old man’s curiosity would be soon followed by more powerful methods. This was a sword’s edge. He had to be honest, and he had to hide the rest. Harry had read up on this, fortunately, very soon after he had come back from the Isle of Man.

“I went to kill him,” he said truthfully. “He was drugged and in no state to give consent. I enjoyed it much more than he did, I guess.”

Dumbledore stared at him over his half-moon spectacles, dubiousness slowly giving way to alarm. Then he said, “It is possible he has made you think so. Remember that he is a manipulative, cruel wizard. Remember Morfin Gaunt. Remember the diary.”

“Professor Dumbledore, he has not killed me yet. I am as good a distraction as any. I would like to continue to be.”

“I can hardly put you in such a state of peril!”

“It is one that I enjoy!” Harry shouted. “In the worst case, I die. In the best case, you finish your Horcrux hunt without him trying to stop you.”

“I did not protect you all these years to throw you into his web, Harry!” Dumbledore thundered, rising, and for the first time after the Ministry, Harry saw the man who had defeated Grindelwald in a duel. “Few students who attended this school have been as beloved to me as you are.”

“I know,” Harry said kindly, meaning every word of what he said. “I have spent many nights thinking about this. I would die for you, Professor. I am Dumbledore’s man, through and through, as the Minister calls me. I will not desert my friends. I am the same Harry whom you found before the Mirror of Erised, all those years ago.”

“I think the Mirror will show you something different now,” Dumbledore said sadly. 

“No, it will show me the same thing it did then. It will show me that my greatest desire is to belong.”

“And you belong here, with your friends, under my care and protection.”

“Professor, once you told me that my greatest weapon was my heart. Don’t you remember?”

Dumbledore looked wretched. He shook his head and said, “How was I to know it would lead you to the monster destined to kill you? Neither can live while the other survives, Harry.” 

“Prophecies are only as good as the weight we give them. You taught me that too.” Harry rose to his feet and plucked his wand off the table. “He got me out from that hell in the summer. If he didn’t kill me then, he is hardly likely to kill me now.”

“You don’t know him as I do,” Dumbledore murmured, walking to the window and watching the Gryffindor team practising. “I remember you flying for the first time, every inch your father’s son.”

Harry smiled sadly and joined the man at the window. When Dumbledore gripped his wrist and asked softly, “Will you at least take a port-key from me, to bring you back to me if anything happens?”

Harry nodded. 

——

“You have the stench of Dumbledore’s magic on you,” Voldemort remarked, when Harry appeared in the room.

Voldemort had redecorated, Harry noted, as he took in the large bookcases that had been moved in. 

“Have you considered using a second room?” he asked wryly.

“How would I? An orphan’s imagination and bank account are limited to a room,” Voldemort replied, humour lacing his voice. “Never mind my modest means, why do you smell of Dumbledore?”

“I am a much wanted man,” Harry said teasingly, walking over to the desk and stealing an apple from Voldemort’s fruit-basket. He bit off a chunk and offered the rest to Voldemort. 

Voldemort obliged and asked, “Now that we have tasted of the forbidden fruit, what is to become of us?”

“He wants to ensure my safety, should you develop an interest in murdering me.”

“You have me wrapped around your little finger,” Voldemort said wryly, keeping a bookmark carefully before closing his book. “Cock-whipped as I am, you can assure Dumbledore of my harmlessness.”

“Yes, I am sure he will react well to that statement,” Harry muttered, taking another bite of his apple. 

He was quite hungry. Dumbledore’s revelations had kept him up all night. Then he had rushed through classes. Then he had to sit through Hermione’s Transfiguration revision. Then he had to play cards with Ron. Then he had finally made it to his bed. 

“Will your modest bank account stretch to a supper?” 

Voldemort laughed and rose, pulling Harry to him for a proper kiss. Then he said, “I believe you have not seen my kitchen.”

“You mean that you actually have other rooms in this house?”

“Harry, I don’t divide all my time between my bed and my bath.” 

Harry had begun to suspect that Voldemort actually did. He was relieved to hear that it was not the case. For the first time, the door leading away from the bedroom was opened, and Harry was surprised to see a normal-looking corridor. Voldemort looked amused. Harry grinned and bounded out to explore. It was a normal house, tastefully decorated. Harry knew Petunia would approve. Whoever knew that Voldemort and his aunt had similar tastes in home decor? The kitchen was small and clean. There were dishes in the sink and an old refrigerator. Harry opened the appliance and found only bread and fruit. 

“Why is it so…Muggle?” Harry asked, curious.

“There is a price on my head, hero-mine,” Voldemort reminded me.

“Unlike you to worry about the Ministry,” Harry remarked. 

“I am worried about Grindelwald,” Voldemort admitted. “The whole of Europe is under his control. I am a powerful wizard but I would not cross one known to be mad and vicious, and possessing an army as well spies throughout the world. I am at the top of his wanted list. He thinks I am the last obstacle to his conquest of Britain. I think it would be foolish of me to draw attention while he lives. I will leave folly to Dumbledore.”

“So your grand plan consists of waiting for everyone important to die?” Harry asked dryly. “It doesn’t sound very evil, you know.”

Voldemort sighed and replied, “If you must actually know, my Inner Circle cajoled me into hiding. I have heard enough from them about how refusing to listen to advice got me nearly killed the first time.” 

Bellatrix Lestrange advised patience? Harry found that difficult to believe.

“Enough of that, now,” Voldemort told him. “This isn’t what you came by for.”

“If your bank account lets you buy meat, I can cook a mean meal next time,” Harry promised. He wanted to. He hated cooking, because he was forced at the Dursleys to do it. Now, though, seeing the barely used kitchen, Harry wanted to cook. 

“Leave a list of what you need,” Voldemort said. “We are being horribly domestic, Harry. Are you Dumbledore didn’t add in some mischief to your port-key?” 

“We are not picking horrendously lavender doilies together yet,” Harry reassured him. “And I am sure you scanned every bit of me for any tampering before you even touched me.”

“What did he tell you?” Voldemort asked, leaning against a bare counter. “It must be something quite terrifying, for you to be evading my questions with such skill. Is it about Abraxas?” 

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Your parents? My parents? What could affect you so?” 

Harry got the bread and fruit out. With shaking hands, he cut the bread and said, “He told me that your old diary had a bit of your soul.”

“Ah, I see. That is an ugly piece of history, Harry.” 

Harry did not reply. Voldemort walked over and tugged the knife away from Harry’s trembling fingers. Then he took Harry’s face and turned it to meet his gaze.

“He did not tell me, but I think I understand the bond now,” Harry whispered. “That is why you cannot kill me. That is why he let me come here again.” 

Voldemort closed his eyes and nodded. Then, he sighed and said quietly, “I can tell you all about it, if you want to hear my account. Dumbledore has been hunting them down, hasn’t he? I have been feeling it, Harry, in my flesh, in the very marrow of my bones, in my…soul. I can feel it each time he kills me. It is not without its consequences. I am waiting it out.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, horrified by both Voldemort’s knowledge and by the fact that Dumbledore had successfully destroyed parts of Voldemort’s soul. “Why are you letting this happen, if you knew?”

“I have never cared overmuch for my soul. You know that. There is only piece of my soul that is valuable enough to protect, Harry,” Voldemort replied calmly. 

“The one in you?” Harry asked quietly. 

Didn’t the rest matter? He did not understand the matter in entirety, but hadn’t Dumbledore said something about shattering and instability? Did the bit of soul remaining expand after the others were gone? Harry frowned. 

“Yes.”

“Why? Why is it more important?”

“Because it is loved,” Voldemort told him, snatching a piece of bread from Harry, and walking back to the corridor that led to his bedroom. 

Love? Harry was about to deny that, but he remembered how he had held his own against Dumbledore. He sighed. When had it begun? After Voldemort had rescued him last summer? After Voldemort had shown him that he could still enjoy sex? After the Isle of Man? After the night he had been allowed to make love to the man? After killing Wormtail? 

He felt cheated. He should have been able to see that first, before Voldemort had. He should have been able to whisper it into his lover’s ear, instead of having it flung at him as a parting shot. 

And he felt scared. Harry bit his lip. He had never wanted it to come to this. He had only wanted to be a ninja-killer in a catsuit. 

And he felt important. Harry knew that he had always been important, to many people. He had, however, spent ten years at the Dursleys’ not knowing that. People had died for him - so many people. This, however, this was different. This was Harry desiring to live for someone, to bring them happiness, to love them as much as he was allowed to by time and circumstance, for he knew it was going to be short and end in disaster. 

He washed his face at the kitchen sink, wrote down a list and taped it to the refrigerator, and walked back to join Voldemort. 

He knew he had to think about the piece of soul in him, the one that Dumbledore had conveniently not told him about. Could it be removed? Did he want it removed? He decided to mull over that later.

“Fuck me,” he told Voldemort, poking the man in the ribs.

Voldemort muttered something about Harry’s bossiness, but gave in. It was a good fuck, Harry judged, as he held the headboard for dear life. This was Voldemort fucking him rough and hard, just the way Harry liked, and making him forget everything that was on his mind. There was only a cock in his arse that knew how to pleasure him well, fingers digging into Harry’s hips, and a filthy mouth whispering filthy things into Harry’s ear. 

Later, as he lay with Voldemort on top of him, he asked something that had bothered him greatly. 

“When did you know I held a part of your soul? Did you know last summer when you possessed me?”

“I suspected it when we fucked the first time,” Voldemort murmured, pressing lazy kisses to Harry’s neck. “I thought I was being fanciful and dismissed the notion. Then you took me, and the intensity of my emotions shattered my Occlumency shields for the first time in decades, and your mind swallowed mine whole, and somehow I knew.”

“Your shields fell? Is that why you don’t like to switch?” Harry asked curiously. “Was it always like that?” 

“Hmm? No, of course not. I have been fucked a great many times, Harry. I had never been made love to. I think that was the difference which made my Occlumency slip. I had not been expecting such an assault of emotion.”

“It didn’t terrify you?” Harry wondered, even as he felt tears come to his eyes on how casually Voldemort had said those words. “It would have terrified me, if that had never happened before.”

“You were there. Did I look terrified?”

“No.”

“There is your answer.”

Harry smiled and turned to face the man. Voldemort rolled off to the side obligingly. Harry caressed his forehead and said firmly, “I love you.”

“I know.”

“Yes, I know you know! I wanted to tell you, to hold your gaze and to say the words. It was important to me.”

“I know.”

Harry rolled his eyes and kissed the man. 

“This is all going to end up like Romeo and Juliet, isn’t it?” he asked tiredly. “I can feel it in my heart.”

“You have read Shakespeare?” Voldemort asked with great interest. “I never took you for the scholarly sort, Harry.”

Harry knew the story from a school play. He was hardly going to tell Voldemort that now that the other man finally considered him literate enough.

“The story is derived from Ovid’s Pyramus and Thisbe, I believe,” Voldemort murmured. “I could be wrong. My memory is quite antiquated, after all.”

“I don’t think Dumbledore and you are prone to forgetting,” Harry cut in wryly. “So you think my comparison suits?” 

“If you had let me finish, I would have told you that it didn’t. We aren’t going to die. We will wait Dumbledore out. Let him finish his hunt. It won’t make a difference. He has blinded himself to the fact that Normandy is only a reprieve. It is going to cost him.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, frightened by the conviction in Voldemort’s voice.

“Grindelwald has an army at Dijon, moving north towards Calais. I don’t need to do anything except wait.”

Where was Dijon? Harry remembered Hermione saying something about the place. What did it matter? Calais was close enough, from what Harry knew. The ferry to Dover was from Calais, wasn’t it? 

Dumbledore, at least, was in Scotland. Voldemort was in Hertfordshire. 

Picking his words carefully, Harry said, “You have the same man wanting to kill you, you know.”

“I know. Luckily for me, I am protected by a prophecy. Only a short, half-blind, bossy man can kill me, or so the soothsayer spake.”

“Well, I wish you would take it all more seriously,” Harry muttered. “I don’t know how to deal with Dumbledore now. I think he feels the same. He doesn’t know what to do with me now that he knows all this.”

“If I were you, I would worry more about why Dumbledore hasn’t told you that you hold a piece of my soul,” Voldemort said seriously. “His Horcrux hunt will have to end with you, and he knows that. How is he going to kill my soul without damaging the container?“

“I am a container now?” 

“A very desirable container,” Voldemort flattered. 

“Can you return your soul to yourself, from me?” 

Voldemort looked hesitant. Harry touched his cheek. 

“I don’t know. That worries me, if I may be frank. I am not worried about Dumbledore traipsing around the country killing my pieces trapped in inanimate objects. I have managed to do without them for a very long time. This, however, leaves you in a dangerous situation.” 

“I have to return,” Harry said gently. 

“And I had to warn you,” Voldemort said dismissively, reaching across Harry to blow out the last candle.

Harry expected Dumbledore knew a way to kill the soul without damaging him, but he supposed he was considered too much of a risk to be exposed to such sensitive information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you think of it. Good things, bad things, ugly things - everything helps me plot and improve :) 
> 
> Notes:  
> Ovid's Metamorphoses has the story of Pyramus and Thisbe, that Voldemort talks about here.


	11. We Three Kings

“Happy Christmas,” Harry murmured, pressing a kiss to the sleeping man’s forehead. For all his sharp reflexes, Voldemort often slept through Harry’s comings and goings.

Harry had thought about going to the Weasleys for Christmas. Ron and Hermione had urged him to. He had, however, decided to stay at Hogwarts. He knew that he would not be able to sneak away from the ruckus that was the Weasley home at Christmas. He had thought about avoiding Voldemort during the holiday week, but decided to visit the man anyway. Most nights, when Harry arrived, if Voldemort was awake, Voldemort fucked him and they slept together, and Harry left before Voldemort woke up to get back in time for breakfast at Hogwarts. Dumbledore’s reproving stare over his half-moon spectacles had slowly given away to resignation. Harry hoped that seeing his unharmed state gave Dumbledore some reassurance. 

Harry’s extremities must have been cold, for Voldemort shivered when Harry joined him under the mountain of blankets. The jostling seemed to wake him up partially, and he muttered a few words of greeting. 

“Where do you even buy these ridiculously furry blankets from?” Harry wondered. 

“From Canada,” Voldemort sleepily murmured. “Too many bears.”

This was one of Harry’s favourite past-times; asking Voldemort trivial questions when the latter was partly awake. He often got the most interesting answers. 

“Have you seen a real bear?” Harry asked curiously. He had not seen them except on the television and in Hagrid’s books. 

“Ralph took me bear-hunting once,” Voldemort replied. “In Alaska. Very cold. The bears eat fish.”

“Who is Ralph?” Harry asked, fairly certain that he could guess at the relationship. Dumbledore had a lot of phials of memories that involved Riddle fucking. And Harry was sure that the man had had many more lovers in the course of his life.

“Ralph was an Oxford professor. An aesthete with a chair in philosophy. Took me under his wing when I was sixteen or so. I sucked his cock in an alley off West End. His monocle fell into the gutter and he didn’t care. Quoted Goethe as he came. I finished the quote for him, and he ended up sheltering me that summer, and the one after, and it went on until he married. It was the most high-brow sex of my life. Took me to America with him when he was touring universities there. Taught me to shoot and to drive a car. Gave me the princely sum of eight thousand pounds when we had to go our separate ways. I left London and started my travels.”

So that was Ralph. Harry tugged Voldemort close and wound an arm around the man, playing his fingers along the spine in slow circles. Voldemort’s stories often both horrified and fascinated him. Voldemort had not sounded particularly hesitant in talking about Ralph, but Harry knew the man often kept a wary eye on Harry after he had been coaxed into sleepy revelations, to see how Harry was reacting.

“I went to a club and ended up in a trafficker’s den. You sucked a man off in London and got a free trip to America,” Harry commented. 

“Well, what can I say? I was very good at it,” Voldemort replied. Harry could feel the hint of a smile against his skin. He chuckled and pressed a kiss to the nearest bit of skin he could find, glad that his comment seemed to have put the man at ease.

Harry wondered, as he often did, why Voldemort’s liaisons often had been with Muggles. There had been that surgeon from Charing Cross, right? Some very brilliant Muggles, but Muggles nonetheless. Maybe he wanted the privacy the Muggle world gave him. Harry could not imagine Voldemort trusting wizards enough to suck their cock and to get fucked by them, particularly when Dumbledore was out scouring for information about him. 

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“More personal than my stint as arm-candy to an eccentric Oxford professor?” Voldemort asked incredulously.

“When did you start your affair with Abraxas?”

Voldemort did not reply for the longest time that Harry thought he might not. Then he sighed and said, “After his marriage. The night of his marriage, to be exact. That was he felt it necessary to come pounding on my door, after bedding his wife, smelling of her, to tell me that he had wanted me for the longest time, and would I please, please fuck him. I had wanted him badly. So I gave in, again and again. I have never claimed to hold many morals, but I have to say that it was exasperating to have to Obliviate his blue-eyed, dim-witted, flower of a wife every other week.”

“I don’t think that did much for her wits.“

“Yes, Harry. You are right, Harry.”

Harry wondered how long Riddle had waited for Abraxas, how obsessed Riddle must have been, to give in again and again. Voldemort had called himself cock-whipped by Harry. Harry felt that didn’t hold a candle to the dysfunction that was his relationship with Abraxas.

“Many said that I was besotted,” Voldemort said thoughtfully. “Dumbledore, of course, made comparisons to my late, unlamented parents. Strangely, it was not the relationship that affected me, but his death. I had become quite used to the dysfunction. His death, however… I was the first one to reach the stables. He had sent a Patronus. He could be vicious sometimes, and he had chosen to be vicious at the end. So I reached there, expecting that the coy message he had sent was to do with some magnificent idea of fucking - he had a fondness for fucking in the stables - and I found his body torn apart by his racing steeds. I was attempting to assemble the pieces together when Lucius found me. He hushed the whole matter up.” 

“Oh God!” Harry exclaimed, tightening his grip on the body beside him.

“It is rather ironic, is it not, that our fucking is less dysfunctional?”

Harry knew he did not have much to compare by but he was beginning to think they had managed, by a freak chance, to build something between them that was remarkably functional despite everything. 

A cuckoo sang out the midnight hour. He smiled and kissed Voldemort at length, and then wished him, “Happy Christmas.”

“Will I get a gift?” 

“You will,” Harry promised. “Give me your wand.”

Voldemort handed it over and Harry knew that this was the reason why they were functional. They trusted, even when neither would admit to doing so. Summoning all his focus and patience, Harry held his wand to its brother, and chanted the spell that Voldemort had once done wandlessly and wordlessly. It had taken three days to memorize the spell, after he had found it in the restricted section. It was in ancient Gaelic and it was a beautiful chant, at least to Harry’s ears. Historically, it had been done when princes and princesses had been sent as wards to other courts, for their safety.

“Let it always take you to where you belong,” he said once he had finished, and handed the wand back. It was a powerful chant, and Harry felt drained and tired.

Voldemort took the wand carefully, and Harry remembered that the same expression of wonder had flickered across Riddle’s face in Ollivander’s shop when he had held the same wand for the first time. There had been exultation too then. There was none now. There was only wonder, and it softened his features so. 

“I hadn’t expected-” Voldemort left a sentence broken and unfinished for the first time in their acquaintance. “Harry, I cannot say-”

“Will you make love to me?” Harry asked quietly. 

Voldemort’s eyes had a strange lustre to them. He nodded and moved his body to straddle Harry’s, pressing kisses to his face in an unusually haphazard manner. Sometimes, Harry reflected, even those actions that came to you so naturally, as sex came to Voldemort, had to be learned again. 

Later, after Voldemort had stirred from bed to throw more logs onto the dying fire, after he had brought them glasses of mulled wine that tasted better than all the wine Harry had tried in his life so far, as they sat there against the headboard drinking, Voldemort asked, “What do you want for Christmas?”

Feeling puckish, Harry grinned and said, “Teach me to shoot. It could come in handy if a bear attacks me.”

“As you wish. You are going to be much better at it than I ever was,” Voldemort said laughing. “Your eye-hand coordination is exceptional.”

“The best you have seen?” Harry asked, pleased at the compliment. Personally, he thought that Voldemort had the sharpest reflexes and best coordination of anyone he had ever seen. He was often clumsy around the man.

“That would be Bella,” Voldemort replied. “Her coordination is legendary and even Azkaban has not done much to ruin it. It ruined her mind and body both, but not her grace in duelling.”

“I know.”

Harry knew. Harry knew how Sirius had fallen. Harry had chased the mad bitch down the hallways of the Ministry, raging at how she danced away from his spells. 

“For what it is worth, she was quite despondent afterwards as well,” Voldemort remarked. “I don’t think she expected Black to fall.”

“She hated him.”

“Yes, she hates most everyone, but she also has very few opponents that challenge her, and her history with Black is complex. It is the reason why he never married, or so I have heard said.”

Harry snorted. He did not think too much of Voldemort’s attempt at comforting him with that lie. Sirius hankering after Bellatrix! Yet, Harry wondered, thinking of what Dumbledore had once hinted at, and what Snape had often ranted about, maybe there was something to it? He would have to carefully get the truth from Lupin. 

Speaking of that mad bitch, Harry wondered something that most everyone wondered about.

“Have you ever fucked Bellatrix?”

“When I entered Slytherin, I was given a good piece of advice by our Prefect: Never fuck a Black. I have held to that. More wine?”

Unlike Mrs. Weasley, Voldemort would pour as much as Harry wanted. Harry felt all adult, suddenly, and declined.

“Suit yourself,” Voldemort replied. “I am off to pour myself more.” He made to pick up his robe that had been discarded on the floor earlier. Harry shot a mild stinging hex at his wrist. 

“No,” he said. “I want you naked.”

“There is a draught in the corridor that I haven’t yet fixed,” Voldemort said, trying to sound extremely put-upon and failing, and rubbing his wrist while looking at Harry a gaze full of curiosity and desire. 

Harry held his gaze confidently. Sure enough, Voldemort shook his head in exasperation and left the room naked. Harry grinned. The trick, he was slowly coming to believe after watching Dumbledore and Voldemort both, was to be confident enough to expect the other person to do what you want.

He watched the logs crackling in the fire and pulled the bear-fur blankets further up his torso to ward against the early morning chill. Voldemort came back with a full glass and a platter of crackers, fruit and cheese. Harry’s stomach rumbled in response to the sight of the food.

“Are you staying?” Voldemort asked, sipping his wine and making an appreciative sound that went straight to Harry’s cock. Harry had not thought of Voldemort as someone who liked mulled wine. “There will be no decadent lunch that matches the spread at Hogwarts, mind you.”

Harry was torn between staying, given the prospect of more sex, and eating Christmas food at school, which was one of the highlights of his year. He knew he would have to go for dinner. Dumbledore might turn a blind eye but Snape would not. Stirring Snape’s paranoia was an unwise thing to do. Still, he could skip lunch safely enough.

Feeling mischievous, he said, “I can think of a decadent lunch.”

“Well then, wake me up in a few hours,” Voldemort said, delving back under the blankets. Harry, trained by Petunia, could not sleep once morning had broken. He had come to believe that Voldemort spent most of his time sleeping. Hibernating. He let the man sleep and trudged to the bath. Voldemort had not yet run out of Harry’s soap, he noted. 

Smiling, he picked the bar and hummed We Three Kings. It was turning out to be a good Christmas. He wondered if Ron and Hermione liked their presents from him. He had not yet opened their presents. His stomach grumbled as he left the bath. He plodded his way to the sterile kitchen and found that Voldemort had managed to acquire pots and pans since the last time Harry had stepped into the room.


	12. Gunslinger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added chapter titles! Not very creative, but I tried.

It was the first time Harry had cooked in a new pot. Petunia usually was frightened to let him touch anything new. He found the vessel light and easy to handle. Must be aluminum, he supposed. Not surprising, he thought, given how thin and frail Voldemort’s wrists felt in Harry’s grasp sometimes. Cast-iron would not work with those.

He had fallen into Voldemort’s habit of not using magic. When he had been at the Weasleys for a year, Molly had taught him so many useful house-keeping and cooking spells. He had taken to them with glee. Yet, now, he seemed to have gone back to his ways at his Aunt’s, doing everything by hand. He did not hate it. He had hated it at Petunia’s.

A door in the far corner caught his eye. Did it lead outside? What was outside, anyway? The view from the bedroom window was of generic, dense tree-cover. 

He hesitated, but decided that it should be fine. He had his wand on him. Besides, what did he expect to see? A dungeon?

The door was latched. There were wards, but they did not affect Harry. He stepped out onto a balcony overlooking a large pond. Around it were tall trees that Harry did not know the names of. There was a bench by the pond and Harry could see two books on the seat. 

The kettle whistled. Harry went back in, got his tea, and came back to the balcony. There was a small gate at the side, leading to a set of stairs that went down to a path which circumvented the pond. 

No ducks, he noted. 

—-

“You have a pond,” Harry informed Voldemort when they sat for lunch. 

Voldemort slowly chewed a mouthful of Harry’s lasagna and then said, “You make a better chef than a hero. Yes, there is a pond. Don’t swim in it. It is full of Inferi.”

“Cheers,” Harry muttered. “That explains the ducks.”

“There aren’t any.”

“Exactly!”

Voldemort stared at him suspiciously. Harry shook his head and returned to his food. Voldemort seemed to like his cooking better than Harry himself did. 

“If I had known you liked this stuff, I might have made you a second serving for dinner,” Harry said ruefully. 

“I like this,” Voldemort agreed. “Thank you. I have rarely eaten so much in a single meal in a very long time. Don’t fret, though. I am dining with friends today.”

Harry’s fork clattered down to his plate. He picked it up, dabbed at his lips with his napkin, and asked incredulously, “Friends?”

Voldemort had an evil smile as he said, “I have acquired plenty, now that Grindelwald is about to invade any day.” 

“An interesting time to make friendships,” Harry said wryly. 

“Never mind that. I have plans for you,” Voldemort said, setting down his silverware on his empty plate. “Coffee?”

Harry did not drink coffee. Petunia had always said it was too French. Or American. He could never remember which. 

“You drink coffee?”

“Not usually. Still, this was a fine meal. I regret that we did not pick a wine to pair with it. At least, we can end it finely, with coffee.”

Voldemort turned to have decent coffee-brewing skills. It was the patience, Harry suspected, watching him grind and measure and brew. The smell of fresh ground coffee made Harry twitchy. 

Harry was handed a cup and he took a tentative sip. 

“Wow!”

Voldemort swooped to lick coffee away from Harry’s upper lip. 

“Coffee, and then you will indulge me on a trivial matter, and then I will teach you to shoot.”

Harry wondered what the trivial matter might be, but decided to not worry about it. Coffee was good. Learning to shoot was something he looked forward to. Vernon had taught Dudley. Petunia had made noises that it might be a good idea to teach Harry too, especially given the sorts he mingled with. Harry was not sure if it was her resignation to his incurably criminal ways or her wish to see him capable of basic self-defence. Vernon had refused to have anything to do with it.

Guns had fascinated Harry from a young age. The westerns Dudley loved (and Harry too had loved them, falling asleep often to the guns and the speeches full of bravado, as the sounds had carried to his cupboard) had guns and brave men fighting against ruffians and nature both. He suspected it was only a stereotypical boy’s fantasy, to own a gun, and to learn to shoot.

“I am curious to see where this will take me to,” Voldemort said, holding out a hand to Harry, while his other hand was wrapped with intent around his wand.

Harry took his hand eagerly, curious to see where the spell thought Voldemort belonged. He knew, with certainty, that it would not bring Voldemort to him. They wound up in a familiar place, roofless and ancient. 

“The Isle of Man,” Harry whispered, looking at the clear skies and the wildflowers and the rocks going to the sea.

There was a far-away expression on Voldemort’s face, as if lost in some memory painful. Harry moved away and let him be. He had seen that expression often enough on Dumbledore’s face, whenever Grindelwald’s name came up in connection to some major attack. He picked a path along the craggy rocks until he came to a low outcrop that overlooked the waters. Sea-spray hit him cold in the face and he knew his clothes would be drenched, but it did not matter then. He wondered what it was like to be old and tired, and still wanting to live and protect whatever you believed in. Would Hermione be as passionate about her causes when she was Dumbledore’s age?

—-

Voldemort was a practical instructor. He gave crisp directions, a demonstration, and then retreated to let Harry try it out. There were clay pigeons conjured at different ranges. Voldemort was right, Harry thought. His coordination was not an issue. The sound of the retort was startling, though.

“This is a Smith and Wesson Model 3, Harry,” Voldemort told him. “It is rather old, but it is good enough to be starting with.”

Harry looked at the faint engraving on the leather case. _“From L to R, circa 1950.”_

“Did Ralph buy you this?”

“Ah, no. This came to me through the illustrious Oswald, an expatriate from the old Russian Empire who had made his way to London and established a household here. He was a music instructor, and had many prized pupils who went on to major orchestras around the world. He was fond of hunting and young men.”

“Did you meet him in an alley off West End too?” Harry asked, grinning.

Voldemort conjured more clay pigeons for him and replied with amusement, “We met in the pews of All Saints in Notting Hill. I was in London for a brief period in between my travels, and was tracking someone. Oswald was there to pray for his sick mother. Neither of us got what we were there for. His mother died. My quarry escaped. We ended up in bed for a few wild weeks.”

“Of course you did,” Harry said wryly. 

Personally, he thought that all the Muggle relationships Voldemort had carried on had been much healthier for him than whatever fucked up arrangement he had with Abraxas. Harry remembered a rock song that sang about the dangers of getting emotionally compromised. He bit his lip as he took aim and blasted the closest pigeon’s head off. 

Were they emotionally compromised? Harry knew he loved Voldemort, but he also knew that he would never desert his friends or Dumbledore’s cause. Voldemort, he knew, liked him well enough, and was rarely unkind to him. This was the best they could be, Harry understood. With both of them holding their roles in the war far away from their interactions, they lived in a nice state of suspended reality. It could work. Didn’t Petunia’s and Vernon’s marriage work? They had been in suspended reality for years, after all.

“Careful, Harry,” Voldemort said. “Losing yourself in thoughts when handling a gun isn’t recommended.”

“I am careful,” Harry called out. “You are still standing!”

“This reminds me of the Gunslinger,” Voldemort remarked, coming to stand beside Harry and idly watching as Harry despatched each clay pigeon with precise aim. 

“What is that?”

“It is an American novel, Harry. There is a rather famous quote in it: _‘I do not aim with my hand; he who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I aim with my eye. I do not shoot with my hand; he who shoots with his gun has forgotten the face of his father. I shoot with my mind. I do not kill with my gun; he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father. I kill with my heart._ ’” 

Harry listened, rapt to the melody in Voldemort’s voice which coated words in velvet. The handle of the gun was warm against his palm. He thought of Wormtail. He had killed with his heart, for his heart.

“I think I killed with my heart,” Harry said thickly, trying not to remember and cry. All he could think of was the disappointment on Dumbledore’s face and the anger on Voldemort’s.

“The first kill is always with your heart,” Voldemort said quietly, wrapping a palm around Harry’s, resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder, and in a flurry of shots, decapitating all the remaining pigeons. The gun slipped from their hands and fell to the ground unheeded. And when Harry turned to face Voldemort, he remembered the man Merope had obsessed over, and how Voldemort had killed him, and knew that the first kill had been from the heart. 

It had sounded like a warning, as if Voldemort wanted him to beware.

Harry gave a shaky smile. Voldemort shook his head, picked up the gun, cleaned it carefully, put it back in its case, and handed it to Harry. 

“May it always be for clay pigeons,” he murmured, keeping his eyes fixed on Harry. “If it isn’t, may you always kill with your heart.”

They stood there, silent, for a while, as Harry wondered what to reply. Then he finally settled on a brisk nod and put the gun away. All thoughts of the dashing, western cowboys had fled his mind. 

——

Christmas dinner at Hogwarts was a raucous affair. Dumbledore cheered everyone with his antics, and Harry, sitting between the mildly disapproving McGonagall and the sternly disapproving Snape, could not stop chortling throughout the meal. It ended with Dumbledore innocently inviting Snape into pulling a cracker with him, which resulted in a sniff and Snape’s black robes billowing away as he stormed out of the hall.

“There was no need,” McGonagall said sharply. “He has enough on his plate.”

Dumbledore did not look guilty, but Harry could see that he mellowed down in his merry-making after that. 

Later, as they were dispersing, Dumbledore leaned over and asked Harry, “Do you mind helping an old man to his office?”

Harry nodded and rose to help Dumbledore up. The man did not need help, but as he had sometimes told Harry, pretext mattered.

“Did you enjoy the celebrations, Harry?” Dumbledore asked, as they walked to his office.

“Yes, Professor. They were great!” Harry said truthfully. 

“Good, good,” Dumbledore said, his eyes lingering on the two Hufflepuff First Years who had stayed back for the holidays. 

They gave him bashful smiles and scampered away, no doubt overwhelmed by their Chocolate Frog card hero paying them attention. Harry knew then that something was on Dumbledore’s mind. He could not read his mentor very well, but he had learned to piece together the clues that meant Dumbledore was brooding over something. 

As soon as they were inside the office, Harry closed the door behind him and asked, “What is wrong?” 

“Voldemort is holding a Christmas party. Weren’t you invited?” 

Dumbledore sounded angry. Harry remembered vaguely that Voldemort had said something about a dinner with his friends. It didn’t sound a Christmas party as much as a handle-Grindelwald meeting. 

“No, I wasn’t. Even if I were, I wouldn’t pick that over Christmas at Hogwarts,” Harry said quietly. “What is wrong, Professor?”

“Grindelwald took Normandy and is moving towards Calais. He will be there by the second week of January. Our spy was caught and tortured and killed. I have been promised a part of him, a gift for each of the Twelve Days of Christmas. I received the first one today.” Dumbledore gestured to a box on his desk. 

“Oh, God!” Harry whispered, moving closer, and seeing the dried blood at the edges of the box. He did not move to see what was contained. He thought of clay pigeons blasted, and of the glimpses of Wormtail’s memories. 

_“Maybe, my Lord, I will cut you into little pieces and send one each to the Malfoys and the Lestranges and all the others who loved you. I will keep your mouth for the sweet memories of you gagging on my cock and crying. Who knew that you could cry?”_

Voldemort had been an ugly, misshapen, weak blob sustained by magic and Wormtail’s assistance then. Harry often looked at the man now to see if there was any shadow of that past left. He suspected he would never find out. 

“I am going to London tonight,” Dumbledore said, waving his wand and the box vanished. “I have to meet his family.”

“May I come with you?” Harry asked, wanting to do something. Grindelwald must not have been kind to Dumbledore’s spy, not when his hatred of Dumbledore could fill entire books. 

“Stay here, Harry,” Dumbledore said tiredly. “London is close enough to France. You will be safer at Hogwarts.” 

“Will you reopen the school after the holidays?” Harry asked, seeing the familiar seal of the Board on Dumbledore’s desk.

Dumbledore did not reply. 

“Professor?” Harry asked, wondering why his voice shook. “We must work with the Ministry. Please, you cannot do anything drastic. They have an army!” 

“An army that Grindelwald raised, Harry. If he is dealt with, the army will fall, having nobody to look up to.” 

Suddenly remembering the expression on Dumbledore’s face earlier when he had accused Harry of wanting to go to other Christmas parties, Harry asked carefully, “Where is Voldemort’s Christmas party at?” 

“At Malfoy Manor,” Dumbledore said with a wry smile. “This is the first time after Abraxas’s death that he is deigning to attend the annual event. I believe many high-ranking officials, including the Minister himself, will be present. Common causes, I believe, was Cornelius’s explanation.” 

“This is suicide!” Harry said, frightened, placing his hand on Dumbledore’s sleeve. Voldemort was not going to do anything, Harry knew. Voldemort’s plan was to wait it all out, wasn’t it? Harry could not imagine him throwing his ranks to defend whatever Fudge wanted defended. Voldemort was courting the Minister to make Dumbledore act rashly, Harry was sure.

“Let us defend Hogwarts, Professor. We will need to do that, regardless of whatever the Minister thinks Voldemort will do to stop Grindelwald.”

It was starting to make a horrible sort of sense. Voldemort had said something about Dumbledore’s enemies in high places, hadn’t he? 

“Harry, Grindelwald needs to be stopped,” Dumbledore said quietly. “You are not ready, Voldemort will not do it, the Ministry cannot do it, and I am the only one who can and will.”

“You are not ready either,” Harry told him honestly. “You have responsibilities, here, to us, to the school. You are not some sort of disposable knight!”

Dumbledore smiled and said cheerfully, “Keep the school intact until I return, Harry. I will see you in a week.”

—-

Harry rushed to Voldemort. The man was not there. Oh, right, Harry had forgotten the blasted Christmas party. At three in the morning, Voldemort returned, smelling of wine and expensive perfume. Cornelius Fudge’s perfume, if Harry remembered that scent correctly. Furious at Voldemort, furious at Dumbledore, furious at his own helplessness in the middle of it all, Harry tore into a rage.

“Sucked the Minister’s cock to make sure Dumbledore gets killed?” 

Voldemort, whose lips had turned up into a surprised smile on seeing Harry, stared at him carefully. Then he said quietly, “You had best return and I will forget you said that.”

“Obliviate yourself too in your spare time? God knows you have copious spare time, what with your hiding away from everything!”

Harry knew he should back down, but he could not help taunting the murderous rage in Voldemort’s eyes, knowing that it wouldn’t touch him. He knew that. Voldemort would warn, but he would not act.

Sure enough, Voldemort’s wand came up, and he said steadily, “Leave, or we will have an ugly scene here, Harry.”

Magic swirled in the room, and Harry knew he was out of control, swallowed by rage at Voldemort’s play with the Ministry, and fear for Dumbledore’s life. 

“You won’t do anything to me,” he shouted at Voldemort. “You sucked Abraxas’s cock when it was still wet from his wife’s cunt! Could it get any more pathetic than that?”

Voldemort roared in rage and the magic in the room crashed. Harry cried out in pain as he fell to his knees, subdued by the wild magic. Voldemort looked insane, his eyes blown in anger and fear, his wand clenched in his fingers as if it were the last thing holding him tethered, his lips bleeding from where he was biting down upon them fiercely. Harry could feel the tears on his cheeks, tears of anger and fear, tears of sadness and regret at what he had said. He felt his rage was merited, but he knew, even then, in the midst of his black anger, that the words had been cruel. There was the rawness of loss writ large across the man’s face that told Harry of the toll of the night. It had been years and years. Voldemort had died and Abraxas was dead and Voldemort was here with Harry, and the loss remained raw. Harry hated it.

Voldemort flicked his wand and Harry was naked, each limb tied to the bedposts. Panic soared into his lungs. He fought the bonds, thrashing against the bed madly. Voldemort ventured closer and whispered, “If I wanted, I could show you exactly what they did to you. I could do to you what they did, and break my spells that cloak your memories at the same time. I don’t need an Unforgivable to teach you a lesson, Harry.”

“But you won’t,” Harry whispered in a small voice, frightened beyond measure.

“Won’t I?”

Close to, Harry could see Voldemort’s gaze had flecks of betrayal in them. There was rage, but there was betrayal underlying that. That wounded Harry. He loved the man! He was never, never going to betray him! Yet, Harry thought sadly, the comment about Abraxas had been pretty awful. This was a mess Harry had begun. Taking a deep breath, Harry relaxed his body wilfully. He said quietly, “I am sorry.”

Voldemort cocked his head, looking unmoved by that. “Tell me, Harry, if someone else had sucked my cock earlier tonight, would you still beg me to fuck you?”

Harry felt the sting of it. He gulped and shook his head miserably. He knew he was helpless. He knew, even if Voldemort took him, even if Voldemort had had sex right before, he would return. What he had with Voldemort did matter. And maybe it mattered enough to let infidelity pass. He thought that would be another leaf he was taking from Petunia’s marriage.

When Voldemort prepared him, he did it with his fingers, slowly, making Harry watch, running a knowing gaze over Harry’s slowly-awakening arousal. 

“Such a slut, aren’t you?” Voldemort asked him. “You don’t know what I have been doing, but you still want my cock anyway.”

When Voldemort took him, moving rough and purposeful, Harry arched to angle his body to find pleasure. Voldemort knew his body well, and refused to give it to him. There was only the roughness and the motion, the bonds holding Harry still, and Voldemort’s whispers about how Harry was such a harlot for getting aroused despite it all. Harry’s cock surged to those words, weeping pre-ejaculate over his stomach. Voldemort withdrew and Harry gasped at the abandonment. 

“No,” Voldemort told him, undoing the bonds, and getting up from the bed. “Leave, Harry. That is all you are getting.”

“Please,” Harry whispered, feeling shaken and aroused and humiliated all at once.

“Begging?” Voldemort asked. “Beg then. Crawl to me, show me your wares, get me interested. We will see if I am interested enough.” 

So Harry crawled and begged. He was crying, he realized, and he knew he should just get out of there, but he did not. Voldemort remained where he was, standing, and watching Harry expressionlessly. It was too much, and Harry broke down, sobbing, not knowing what else to do to end it.

“I don’t know what more to do,” Harry confessed. “I am sorry for what I said, but I don’t know what else to do.”

“Only remember that I didn’t either,” Voldemort said quietly. “Just like you, I didn’t know what else to do. I did what he wanted. I fucked him, Obliviated his wife, and hoped that he would want more. I reasoned, as you did now, that it was better to have something than to have nothing.”

This time, Voldemort held him as he cried. He finally stopped, breaking down into hoarse snuffles, and decided to stay where he was, muffled in Voldemort’s robes, just to spare himself the embarrassment of it all. And he was so frightened for Dumbledore still, and did not know what to do about it. And he smelled Cornelius Fudge’s perfume all over Voldemort and it sickened him.

“Did you?” he asked weakly, damning his curiosity.

“No,” Voldemort replied tiredly. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t. And I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. You have me enthralled. You know that. I spent my evening assaulted by the rich perfumes of old windbags, trying to be cordial and patriotic. I could not walk around that forsaken mausoleum without seeing Abraxas’s portrait staring at me from the high walls. Perhaps that was my imagination playing tricks. There was pheasant as the main course, and that was the closest to cock I had in my mouth tonight.”

“I am sorry,” Harry said wretchedly, only wanting to forget and return to Hogwarts, to wait for Dumbledore. And deep inside him, he wondered if he hated Voldemort for being as affected by Abraxas as Harry was by Voldemort.

“Will you return now?” Voldemort asked, as Harry sat up and wiped his cheeks roughly.

“I guess I have to,” Harry said, rising and looking about for his wand. Voldemort summoned it and handed it over. In a fluid gesture, he touched a glass on the bedside table and whispered. 

“Here is your port-key. You might need the bond if you wish to return,” Voldemort said then. 

“You think the port-key will not bring me here?” Harry asked.

Voldemort did not reply. Harry shook his head and said, “It will always bring me to you. It is too late to change that.”

He did not wait for a reply. 

——


	13. We are all of the same mind

Harry spent the next few days determinedly not thinking of the events of Christmas Day. He made snowmen with the First Years that had stayed behind, he wrote letters to Ron and Hermione, to Mrs. Weasley and to Lupin, visited Hagrid, and helped Flitwick decorate the Great Hall for the New Year celebrations.

“You have an excellent knack for charms,” Flitwick complimented him as they charmed together hundreds of suits of armour to sing. “Now that you are more patient with your casting, the results are marvellous! If only Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy would attempt some patience with their casting! They have so much potential.”

Harry grinned and thanked him. He was sure that he had been the least patient of their year, perhaps excepting Malfoy, who did always go off and do impulsive, rash, stupid things when he was upset.

Flitwick finished casting and came to join Harry by the staircase. With a sigh, he said quietly, “I know it has been a difficult time, Harry.”

As if on cue, Snape entered the Hall then, his cloak bearing snow and his face dark and full of rage. He glared at them and stormed off to the dungeons.

“Dumbledore is sorting it out,” Harry said, sitting down on the stair to be level with Flitwick’s head. “Dumbledore always sorts it out.”

“He is an old man, Harry,” Flitwick said thoughtfully. “He won’t listen to Fudge’s new idea of trying to make peace with the Death Eaters until Grindelwald has been dealt with, and rightfully so. Still, a temporary armistice is not the end of the world.”

“For the greater good?” Harry asked wryly, remembering Rita’s scandalous biography that Dumbledore had purchased so many copies of and distributed amongst his friends as gag gifts during the previous Christmas.

“For the lesser evil,” Flitwick corrected him. 

“Voldemort is unlikely to keep his side of any truce Fudge makes with him,” Harry told Flitwick, remembering Bellatrix Lestrange, who had been allowed free rein in the last few years, to kill and torture as she pleased.

“For better or worse, Grindelwald is his problem too,” Flitwick reminded him. “Dumbledore does not agree with me about this. I was there during the First War, and I saw how the goblins were massacred then. I lost family. I am still of the opinion that it is better to treat with You Know Who and make peace until Grindelwald has been dealt with. There has been genocide across Europe, Harry.”

“I trust Dumbledore,” Harry said firmly, even as the fabric of his Weasley sweater chafed against the welts left by the ropes that Voldemort had tied him up with. Don’t remember that, Harry warned himself sternly. 

“We must trust Dumbledore,” Flitwick said. “Goodnight, Harry.” 

—— 

Dumbledore returned on New Year’s Eve, and the weight of inevitability seemed to crush his shoulders, for there was a stoop where there had been none. After he had met the staff and assuaged their concerns, after he had spent hours closeted with Snape, after he had met the Order, after he had met the Ministry representative, after he had met the Board of Governors, after he had met the Head of Aurors, he sent for Harry.

“Hello,” Harry greeted him as he walked in. Fawkes came to him and trilled a soothing tune that settled Harry’s fears for the first time in a week.

“It is less dire than I had expected,” Dumbledore noted. “The last of the European resistance is putting up a solid defence in Calais. They have held him off, for now. We have earned some time, Harry. ”

“Good,” Harry said. “That is good, Professor, but I guess it is not enough.”

“It is not enough,” Dumbledore agreed, his eyes focussed on Harry, taking in everything that was amiss. “Let that be, Harry. What is on your mind? You look a shadow of yourself. What has happened?”

Harry shook his head, trying to shore up his paltry mental defences. He had never been able to hold Dumbledore off. That did not change, as he felt Dumbledore’s curiosity and concern turning to horror and grief. 

“Oh, Harry!” he exclaimed, coming over to press his hand on Harry’s shoulder, a gnarly, heavy weight that was more comfort than Harry had expected it to be.

“I won’t return,” Harry promised, wanting to forget, and knowing that Dumbledore would not oblige with an Obliviation of the whole mess.

Dumbledore sighed and said quietly, “Forgive an old man’s interference, Harry, but surely you must know that you are highly valued by him?”

“He broke me!” Harry shouted, feeling weak and unmanly at the tears that escaped him. “I made a mistake. Yes, I admit to that. I should not have accused him of what I did. But he broke me, Professor. He did not catch me, he let me fall, he let me debase myself, again and again, until I could not do anything else except cry at his feet!”

“Tom was always proud,” Dumbledore said wearily. “Not unlike you.”

“I wouldn’t have let him do that, if our positions had been reversed!”

“He has been particularly careful with you, I think. He let you go, after all. That is for the best, Harry. Forget it, if you will. These are not easy times. I need you whole and here. You don’t have the luxury of time, not now.”

Harry nodded sharply. It could have been worse. Dumbledore was right, of course. Yet, how it hurt, to remember how he had been treated, to remember the ungiving cruelty in Voldemort’s eyes when Harry had cried and begged and crawled. And all because of a comment about a man dead and buried. 

“Could you accompany me to the Ministry meeting tomorrow? Cornelius requested your presence.”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry mumbled, thinking of how it had all started when he had smelled the Minister’s perfume on Voldemort’s clothes.

“What a strange day!” Dumbledore said then, apropos of nothing. Harry, about to leave, turned to face him, a hand on the door-knob. Dumbledore looked hesitant. Harry frowned. Dumbledore shook his head and Harry left. Such strangeness often occurred in interactions with his mentor, so Harry was not overly bothered.

——

That night, as Harry sat on his four-poster bed, and waited up for midnight and the new year, he sensed a gentle exploration of the bond. It was rather like Dumbledore’s barely-there Legilimency, and nothing like Voldemort’s usual brand of incisive rifling through Harry’s thoughts. Yet, it was Voldemort. Harry wondered how abnormal he was that he could tell who was in his head. He was unable to block them all, but he could identify them correctly. Snape’s touch was bitter and full of anger, Dumbledore’s was methodical, and Voldemort’s was random, rarely directed.

“Figures. He can be gentle. He just won’t be,” Harry told himself, thinking of Snape’s rants about the Dark Lord flaying minds open. 

The exploration continued, gentle and careful, as if trying to not alert Harry. He would have not noticed it, if he had not been so used to Dumbledore’s methods. He cursed and rammed his mind against the stupid bond, knowing well that Voldemort would be overwhelm him in scant moments. He was waiting for the retaliation when none came. The sensation faded from his mind in entirety. 

It was unlike Voldemort. Suspicious, Harry reached for his wand and tried to clear his mind. He had never got the hang of it, and he supposed he had Snape’s vicious teaching to thank for that particular failure. Yet, Voldemort’s shields had once shattered under Harry’s, he remembered, suppressing the pang of arousal that liked that memory very much.

A phoenix feather appeared on his bed. Harry unrolled the scroll to read, “Harry New Year, Harry. Wish him a Happy Birthday, should you see him.” 

Harry clutched the feather for strength and took a deep breath. Dumbledore would not face Grindelwald alone one more time, if Harry had anything to say about it. Voldemort…well, Harry just had to live with what had happened. Dumbledore was not wrong, was he? Voldemort had been a murderous bastard long before Harry had been born. Harry was lucky to have escaped with little consequence, comparatively.

“Harry!” Voldemort exclaimed, when Harry appeared, still clutching the phoenix feather in one hand and his wand in the other. Voldemort was seated by the bay window, and the bed looked untouched.

“Hello,” Harry said quietly, feeling the urge to run away and cry and kiss the bastard all at once. 

“Harry, Harry,” Voldemort murmured, rising quickly, and coming to face Harry, extending a hand to cup his face, but hesitating. 

Harry dropped the phoenix feather and closed the distance between them. Voldemort sighed and ran his fingers through Harry’s hair, again and again. 

“Your mind is full of fear and anger,” Voldemort murmured. “Oh, Harry, you aren’t cut out for this.”

“For what?” Harry demanded. “For getting fucked by you? For playing Dumbledore’s prophecy hero? For being the Minister’s poster-boy? For being fucking stuck in a war I don’t even want to be in?”

“For any of it,” Voldemort said quietly. “You aren’t cut out for any of it.”

“Well, I can’t get out of any of it, can I?” Harry spat, pulling away from the embrace and wiping his eyes on his sleeve. Voldemort’s hand came to clasp his shoulder, and pulled him back into the embrace.

“Do you want me tonight at your bidding?” Voldemort asked. “Will that end your pathos at least about what happened between us? Will that make you feel manly and powerful again? ” 

Harry glared at him, only to see that Voldemort looked solemn. Oh, he meant it. Harry swallowed, remembering how Voldemort had ended his fear of sex after he had been rescued from the trafficking ring. 

It was not Voldemort’s regard for him that he doubted, he realized. He feared the costs he would have to pay to slake Voldemort’s pride each time Harry made a mistake.

“I don’t want to mix sex with other things,” Harry said quietly. 

“You aren’t cut out for any of this,” Voldemort repeated, looking at Harry with wonderment. “I don’t know how else to make you feel better.”

“I said something very cruel. You reacted. Can we leave it at that, please?” 

“Well, I exacted my revenge. You haven’t. It is bad form to quarrel over an old lover with your current one. I offer you redressal,” Voldemort pointed out. “And you are turning down your opportunity to do so.”

“If we kept that cycle up, we wouldn’t need Grindelwald to end us,” Harry said tiredly, raking his hand through his hair. 

Voldemort looked dubious. Right. Harry sighed and wondered how to explain that escalating acts of revenge did not make a warm relationship. Then again, he reflected, Voldemort escalated everything. Harry’s acts of passion were taken to a higher level by Voldemort. Harry’s acts of generosity and affection were escalated too, weren’t they? 

“Dumbledore wished you a Happy Birthday,” Harry said finally, breaking the silence.

Voldemort frowned and picked up the phoenix feather at his feet. He examined it closely before setting it aside. 

“The last time he wished me that, I ended up at my lover’s funeral the next day,” Voldemort murmured. 

Harry wondered if even Voldemort had deserved the mess that had been Abraxas. He was unsurprised, after hearing everything else he had heard, that Abraxas had decided to commit his grisly suicide on Riddle’s birthday. He was trying to come up with a response that was appropriate but found himself failing.

“You did not wish me,” Voldemort continued.

“I didn’t think you would like to be wished,” Harry replied honestly. Voldemort hated anything to do with his past, or so Harry had gleaned from his memories.

“I daresay I would not mind,” Voldemort replied. “I rarely mind indulging you.”

“Happy Birthday, then,” Harry said cautiously. Voldemort held his gaze and nodded. 

They stood in awkward silence for a while, and Harry was wondering if it was best to return, when Voldemort cleared his throat and asked, “I know you did not want to mix sex with other issues. Can we indulge now? Am I entitled to a birthday wish?”

Harry felt a smile at the corner of his lips and he chased it away forcefully before it could bloom. His body throbbed with arousal as Voldemort leaned to trap him between his body and the large desk. He brought his hands to Voldemort’s shoulders and pulled him closer.

“Yes,” he whispered. “You can have your birthday wish.”

“Good!” Voldemort exclaimed, stepping away, and walking to the bed. He opened his robe and slid out, letting it pool at his feet, and sat back upon the bed, spreading his legs ever so slightly. “Fuck me, then, most noble hero.”

Harry did not have the heart to chide him for the title. He was too busy undressing and drinking in the sight of his lover. 

Voldemort looked mildly uncomfortable with Harry’s stare but took a deep breath and spread his legs wider in invitation. 

“Lie back,” Harry told him. “Then plant your feet flat on the bed, as wide apart as they will go.”

“You might be mixing sex with other matters,” Voldemort commented. He did comply. Harry had not expected him to do so without more fuss.

“I am mixing sex with a fantasy I have had,” Harry replied, walking up to the bed and then kneeling between Voldemort’s legs. He could see so much like this. He licked his lips and began trailing his fingers up Voldemort’s calves. 

“Harry, come up.”

“Shh, let me see you.” Harry pressed a single finger against the ridge of flesh behind Voldemort’s genitals that had got him such beautiful responses the last time he had attempted it. Close to, he noticed that there were faint scars around Voldemort’s thighs. He ran a finger around one of those bands and Voldemort’s body stiffened.

“Harry-”

“I wish I could kill him again.”

“Harry, I wanted a fuck. If you are going to be so contrary about this, I can gladly reverse our positions.”

“Be quiet,” Harry told him, feeling challenged by Voldemort’s words. And he felt frightened too, by the undercurrent of tenseness in Voldemort’s body, by the lack of evidence of physical arousal, which betrayed a degree of discomfort Harry had not seen in him before. 

He massaged the calves and then the thighs slowly, letting Voldemort get used to his touch. They had time, after all. He had written off sleep for the night. He would drink a Pepper-Up potion before the Ministry meeting.

Once Voldemort’s breathing had steadied from the sharp, shallow inhalation it had been earlier, Harry settled himself on the bed. He resisted Voldemort’s impatient, jerky motions against his hip, instead devoting himself to drawing slow circles on the thin chest. He waited until Voldemort finally relaxed and lay there, taking his touches and kisses without impatiently demanding that they move on towards the principal activity. 

“Any position you would prefer?” Harry asked him, only to receive a noncommittal, languid murmur as reply.

“Oh well, I have a preference,” Harry told him, moving to the headboard and sitting up straight against it. “I want you to ride me.”

Voldemort’s gaze focussed on hearing that, and he said with a mixture of amusement and regret, “I am neither eighteen nor in possession of thigh muscles that would let me accomplish that feat.”

“You are going to be clumsy and will tire soon,” Harry told him. He did not know how the words had come to him so easily. He did not blush. “I want to see that. I want to see you mad with desire and bouncing on my cock, and then desperately squirming because you want to move but your muscles have given up. And once you beg me, I am going to roll you over and take you hard. I am eighteen, after all.”

Voldemort nodded, intrigued by the suggestion, and quickly straddled Harry. 

“No, no, not like that,” Harry told him. “First I want you prepared. Conjure some lubricant and prepare yourself. Give me a show.” 

“As you wish,” Voldemort replied. 

With a sparkle in his eyes, he focussed and waved his hand. A mirror popped up behind him. Keeping his eyes fixed on Harry, he knelt and braced one hand against the headboard. The other hand crept back, glistening with a liquid Harry was familiar with, and Harry could not take his eyes off the mirror. Voldemort put on a show both erotic and careful, shading his activity with his palm, making Harry want to pull it away so that he could stare at the result. 

“You don’t look content,” Voldemort said in a breathy voice, letting his eyes slid shut, rocking back and forth gently.

“You are impossible,” Harry told him, heart full of fondness suddenly at this characteristic display of sexual competitiveness.

Voldemort smiled at the compliment, moved closer, braced his hands on Harry’s chest, and slipped down on Harry’s cock. He was slow and steady, exhibiting a control Harry never had when bouncing on Voldemort’s cock. He took care to keep his eyes open and fixed on Harry throughout. Harry moved to grip his waist, but Voldemort cast him a knowing look and Harry found his wrists bound to the headboard.

“Oh, you are impossible!” Harry exclaimed, sweating, yearning to touch the man’s face. He settled for the small kisses Voldemort granted him every now and then. Voldemort’s eyes slid shut as he sped his movements, and Harry hoped desperately that the man would tire, so that his hands would be freed to touch and hold. He knew, though, that Voldemort loved to win, and rarely yielded to Harry in bed unless Harry had explicitly asked it of him. 

Then Voldemort changed the angle of his descent and Harry closed his eyes to stave off orgasm as Latin escaped his partner’s lips, foul and lewd, full of craving. Then Voldemort’s lips came to his neck, biting and licking, until he fell apart. 

So much for not being eighteen, Harry rued. So much for not having Quidditch-toned thigh muscles.

“Free me at least now!” he whispered, truly desperate to touch. “Let me make you come.”

Voldemort must have been close, for he quickly complied, and Harry brought his hands to work him to release, fast and without refinement, but he doubted that his partner cared then. 

Once Voldemort settled satiated against Harry’s shoulder, too content to move, Harry clutched him close and kissed him slowly. Voldemort was easier to touch and kiss when he was asleep and when he was post-coital, with his usually sharp reflexes benumbed. At all other times, Harry found himself contending with Voldemort’s competitiveness and dominance. 

“Bath? Cleaning Charm? A manservant with a wet, warm towel?” Voldemort demanded then.

“It is your birthday. Let us make it something better,” Harry said, laughing, pushing the man down onto the bed and taking place between his legs.

“Oh, you spoil me so,” Voldemort murmured, giving in, letting Harry lick and slurp. He came again, as Harry had suspected he would, softly and with a long-drawn out sigh. 

He had not moved, apparently boneless, even after Harry had finished his bath, finally cast a Cleaning Charm, blown out the candles, and come back to bed with a glass of water.

“No Healer would approve of licking out a well-fucked man,” Voldemort murmured. 

“I am hardly likely to get anything new that I already haven’t caught from you,” Harry told him, content to be blissfully ignorant of whatever he might have.

“I can wake you up in the morning,” Voldemort said then, sounding as if on the cusp of sleep. “Stay the night.” 

Voldemort wanted him to stay. Harry grinned and kissed the man. He set an alarm spell anyway, because while he believed Voldemort meant well, he found it difficult to imagine the man getting up before noon, especially after the night they had had.

“I am offended,” Voldemort said in the morning, when he stirred awake at the sound of the alarm. “I would have woken you up.” 

“Can’t be late for the Minister,” Harry whispered, putting his clothes on in the dark and picking up his wand.

“Tell him his best friend wishes a Happy New Year,” Voldemort muttered, pulling the blankets up higher. “Tell Dumbledore too. I hope my wish will bring them terrible misfortune and they will all die screaming.”

Harry shook his head in amusement and left the man to his sleep. 

——

“Harry!” Dumbledore said, as they met in the Entrance Hall. “All ready?” 

Harry nodded. He had worn his black robes and brushed his hair back. He had pulled his collar up and tied a Gryffindor scarf around his neck for good measure, to hide the ravaging his neck had been through the previous night. Sober and responsible, just as the Ministry preferred him. Dumbledore, by contrast, had managed to deck himself in lavender so shiny that it hurt Harry to look at him. That was the point, Harry was sure. Distract Fudge enough to win concessions. 

“Happy New Year,” Dumbledore said. “I see that you made amends with an old acquaintance, and how apropos too, at the time of Auld Lang Syne.”

“Happy New Year to you, Professor,” Harry responded warmly, deciding that overlooking that comment was the best way forward. “Someone told me to pass on his wish for you too.” 

“I fear he might hope it will bring me misfortune,” Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. 

“You and the Minister both,” Harry said with a grin. 

“Cornelius will be upset. He does like his new friend very much.”

——

The Ministry was decked with Christmas decorations, but there was an air of solemnity throughout, with the Aurors stationed everywhere and with the busy droves of officials rushing hither and thither even during the holiday season. 

“Albus! Harry!” Fudge greeted them, pompous and plump as ever. “Come in, come in! We had just been waiting for you!”

Harry looked at the table. There was Rufus Scrimgeour, a man Harry respected. There was Lucius Malfoy, looking as smarmy and well-dressed as always. There was Kingsley. There was Percy Weasley, frowning at Dumbledore’s choice of robes. There was Amelia Bones, from the Wizengamot. There was Griselda Marchbanks. There was Dolores Umbridge. 

“Harry, why don’t you sit by me?” Kingsley asked. Harry quickly obeyed. He found it difficult to be stared at, and it had not become easier with experience. He envied Dumbledore for his easy charm in the face of an audience sometimes. 

“Cornelius! Lucius! Rufus!” Dumbledore greeted them. He nodded to Kingsley and Percy. He then moved to kiss Griselda on the cheek. Amelia batted him away, laughing.

“Always the charmer!” she accused him.

Harry felt very young and incapable. Dumbledore ignored Umbridge, which Harry found amusing, given he had even acknowledged Malfoy. 

The discussions began.

“My client wishes to sign the armistice first, before discussing the European threat,” Lucius told them. “We will require the signatures of everyone in this room on the peace treaty.” 

Client? Harry looked askance at Dumbledore, who was beaming at Lucius as if happy with the course of events.

“My dear Lucius,” Dumbledore said. “Perhaps you might wish to apprise Harry of the situation? I fear I did not have the time to inform him of your client’s wishes.”

Lucius smiled politely and Harry wondered how everyone in the room could carry on so with their fake smiles and politeness. 

“What does Voldemort want?” he asked Lucius, the Pepper Up he had imbibed making him impulsive and impatient. Fudge frowned at him. Percy took cue from that and glared at him.

“My client wishes for complete peace between all parties in this room and those we represent, for the duration of the war with the European terror that threatens our fair country,” Lucius told him.

“We are not at war with Grindelwald yet,” Harry pointed out.

“Ah, Harry!” Fudge cut in. “Grindelwald broke the siege at Calais and will attack Dover in a few days, if our information is correct. Diplomatic channels have been closed down, our ambassadors have been captured or murdered, and there have been sightings of large flying carpets in Calais, to carry the troops across. We have cut off all Apparation entrances, but we will have to meet them in battle at Dover.”

“What is your client willing to do to aid our fair country?” Dumbledore asked. “Harry would like to know that too, wouldn’t you, Harry?”

Harry mostly wanted to go back to Voldemort and demand answers, since it did not seem as if Dumbledore had taken him into confidence. 

“My client will put aside his grievances with the current administration for the time period, for he knows that we must all unite for the sake of our nation.”

Right. The man Harry had left in bed this morning had suddenly turned patriotic.

“Can he rein in Bellatrix?” Harry wondered. Either Voldemort could not, or was not genuinely interested in reining that mad bitch in. “She has killed only a few hundred people in the last three years, you know.”

Lucius frowned and repeated, “My client will put aside his grievances with the current administration for the time period.”

“Lucius, Harry cannot in good conscience consider your client’s wishes until he has received an answer to his question,” Amelia cut in.

“Mrs. Lestrange will put the affairs of the nation above her personal grievances, of course,” Lucius told them.

Fudge clapped his hands. “We are all of the same mind, then!” 

“Will he sign too?” Harry asked, since he seemed to be the only one who had no idea what he was agreeing to.

“I will be signing on behalf of my client,” Lucius said. 

“Is that all right?” Harry asked Percy, who could always be relied upon to know arcane rules and regulations.

“That is legally permissible only in the case of minors and those who plead insanity,” Percy said apologetically. 

“Ah, I don’t think your client can fall under the minor category,” Dumbledore said thoughtfully, his eyes gleaming in amusement.

Lucius nodded sharply, as if he had expected this, and said, “He will sign.” 

“We are all of the same mind, then!” Fudge said again, rubbing his hands in happiness.

Nobody dissented.

“We will sign at noon. I will address a press conference to declare the news afterwards. Ring in the New Year with a promise of an era of peace.”

—- 

“What are you trying to do?” Harry asked Dumbledore, hoping for an answer in vain. “There is no way this will end well. We should have just let Lucius sign.”

“These documents are binding. If we are to be bound, it is for the best that he is bound too.”

Harry doubted that Voldemort would let himself be bound to anything after how his binding vow to Wormtail had panned out. 

“It will be a marked difference from the last time I saw him at the Ministry,” Dumbledore remarked, as if commenting on the weather.

Harry smiled despite himself at Dumbledore’s pawky humour and replied, “It will be a marked difference for me too, from the last time I saw him at the Ministry.”

“I admit to curiosity. I want to see how you interact.”

Curiosity? Harry admitted to fear that all of this would go to hell in a hand-basket at noon. 

—-

It turned out to be a remarkably mundane occasion. Lucius chivvied his client in. Nobody looked at Voldemort. Nobody except Dumbledore, who was staring at him thoughtfully. Harry found it odd to see Voldemort dressed in thick robes. He had become used to the thin night-robes and the nudity that marked their interactions. Voldemort was even wearing something inside, for Harry could see the lapels of a crisply pressed white shirt over the collar of the robes. Harry did not try to look at Voldemort’s face. There was no need to overcomplicate this.

Fudge spoke for a few minutes about the importance of an armistice. 

Then he said, “We are all of the same mind, then!”

Harry was beginning to resent that sentence. He kept his eyes firmly on Fudge, refusing to look at either Dumbledore or Voldemort. 

“This day would not be possible, if not for your pragmatism regarding the welfare of our nation,” Voldemort complimented the Minister, who puffed his chest and demurred that he only wanted to do the best for his country.

“Indeed, Cornelius, you are the man we needed at the helm in these trying times,” Dumbledore remarked. 

Harry felt Fudge would explode like that frog in Aesop’s fables. Fudge signed the document and passed it to Amelia. It continued its way along the table, until it reached Harry. He signed his name under Dumbledore’s, feeling that his ugly scrawl looked right out of place compared to the elegant calligraphy of Dumbledore. 

“Mr. Potter, if you would,” Lucius demanded. 

“Right,” Harry said, moving the document across to Lucius. Lucius signed and moved it towards Voldemort, passing him a quill too. 

“Only a moment,” Voldemort murmured, as he twirled the quill in his hand. Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.

“Indulge me, would you, Harry?” Voldemort asked him, in the same voice he had asked Harry if he might be obliging enough to give a birthday fuck. “I confess I have often wanted to shake a hero’s hand.”

Harry could not glare at him, not when everyone was staring at him. Fudge cleared his throat. 

Strangely, it was Percy who intervened, saying nervously, “It is too much to expect Harry to shake hands with his-” 

Fudge said something inane, quickly cutting Percy’s question off. 

How had Percy planned to finish that sentence? 

It did not matter. 

“Sign the armistice,” Harry said levelly. “I will shake your hand after that.” 

“Such distrust over a trifle,” Voldemort said sadly. “Lucius, do you advise your client to go ahead, knowing that even basic trust will not be granted?”

Lucius glared at Fudge, who glared at Dumbledore, who looked up at the ceiling as if to indicate none of the ongoings was worth his interest or intervention.

Harry dared meet Voldemort’s gaze and saw the challenge there. Trust. It was actually about trust, Harry realized then. He trusted Voldemort, with his life. He did not trust him with anything beyond that. 

“Have you changed your mind?” Amelia asked him. 

“No,” Harry replied. 

“Good! We are all of the same mind, then!” Fudge said nervously, playing with his bowler hat. 

“Shake my hand, then,” Harry muttered, offering his hand. His palm was slightly sweaty, his nails had dirt under them, and he worried if that was improper. Lucius looked disapproving. Then Harry decided not to fret about that.

Voldemort reached across and shook his hand firmly, before letting it go. He did not look at Harry after that. 

“We are all of the same mind, then!” Voldemort said then and signed neatly beside Dumbledore’s beautiful signature. 

——


	14. Blood of my blood

“Ah, Lucius, may I request a moment with your client?” 

Lucius hesitated. Voldemort nodded and looked pointedly at Harry. 

“Harry, I am sure you must have a lot to discuss with Draco’s father!” Dumbledore said merrily, pushing Harry towards Lucius, not minding that they were glaring at each other. 

“I know of an empty storage room nearby!” Dumbledore told Voldemort then.

“I know of an office that can be emptied,” Voldemort responded, walking off. Dumbledore winked at Harry and followed him.

“I hope they won’t try to kill each other,” Harry muttered.

“They can’t. They have signed a legal document,” Lucius informed him.

“I didn’t know you were a barrister,” Harry told him. 

“I am not kept around because I am a scrawny prophecy child.” 

Harry lifted his hands in peace and turned away. Right, there was nothing more that needed to be said to Draco’s father. And what did Dumbledore want with Voldemort anyway? Harry hoped that Dumbledore would leave the topic of Harry’s involvement well alone. He was fine. He did not need Dumbledore trying to misguidedly protect him. 

Dumbledore returned alone. Lucius’s eyebrows went up. 

“He decided to leave by himself,” Dumbledore offered. “Apparently, he had another appointment to keep.” 

Lucius nodded briskly and left. Harry translated Dumbledore’s words into the tongue of the common folk. Voldemort had lost his temper and fumed, and stormed away. What had Dumbledore told him? The Horcruxes? No, Dumbledore would not have spoken of that in a place like the Ministry. The bond? Voldemort seemed mostly resigned to it these days. The prophecy? Voldemort had set that aside.

He waited until they had reached Hogwarts. Then he asked, “Will you tell me or will I have to ask him?”

“I only wanted to offer him condolences on Peter Pettigrew’s death,” Dumbledore said innocently. “He seems to be affected yet by the unfortunate event.”

Dumbledore had put at least a few of the pieces together. Harry suppressed a groan, wishing that he had been able to prevent that conversation. He knew it was unlikely that Dumbledore knew the exact reasons as to why Voldemort was affected, but the man was good at guessing, especially when the guessing involved Voldemort. 

“You know that I did it for him,” Harry stated, trying to find out the extent of damage. 

“Why would you do that, I wonder?” Dumbledore said thoughtfully. “I remember Tom as a self-sufficient boy. He did not trust, but he also underestimated the dangers many posed, because he believed in his infallibility and sound judgement. What do we know of Pettigrew? He betrayed most everyone who trusted him. Is it so surprising that Voldemort too found that out the hard way?”

“Right, yes, there was betrayal,” Harry said, trying to keep his voice calm. “It is over, Professor.”

“And I am sure you know all about it. You and I both know that your Occlumency shields have a tendency to slip. He knows it too. I reminded him of that. I believe it should ensure that he never threatens you with the restoration of your memories.” 

“You blackmailed him?” Harry asked, aghast and impressed, all at once. 

Dumbledore hummed Auld Lang Syne and continued up the circular staircase to his office. Harry walked to his dormitory alone, wondering at the man’s sheer audacity.

—-

“Hello!” Harry called out cheerfully. 

Voldemort, in the middle of making soap, looked up at him. Harry was sure he was glaring, but the goggles hid that. 

“I can’t be blamed for what Dumbledore does!” Harry exclaimed. 

“I told him he is not going to last the year,” Voldemort muttered, pouring lye carefully. “I can’t be blamed for what he doesn’t heed.”

“Why are you so sure?” Harry asked, sitting down. Personally, he thought it was Voldemort wanting his fantasy to become reality. 

“There has been a prophecy,” Voldemort replied. “An old crone in the Carpathians. It is said that there were earlier prophecies about Dumbledore and Grindelwald, made by the same seer.”

“Grindelwald’s armies overran the Carpathians months ago,” Harry remarked. “Any seer who valued his or her life would make up that prophecy.” 

“You would be right if Grindelwald believed in prophecies,” Voldemort said thoughtfully. “The crone made a prophecy about two men who had never cared for prophecies.”

Unlike Voldemort, who had obsessed over them a great deal, Harry thought. 

“Still, it would be rebellion to talk about Dumbledore winning,” Harry pointed out.

“Seers cannot do that, Harry. The voices that speak through them are not theirs. They don’t have control over what the voices speak.”

Harry was beginning to think Voldemort still spent a great deal of time obsessing over prophecies. It was weird, given that Voldemort was mostly rational about everything else. Aunt Petunia had a psychic friend who looked at crystal balls and told her about Vernon’s promotion prospects at work. Harry could have told her the answer to that without using crystal balls.

“Well, if the Seer is right, doesn’t that mean you will be happy by the end of the year?” 

“The prospect of Dumbledore dying makes me happy. The prospect of Grindelwald’s victory makes me terribly unhappy. I will have to wait him out in Siberia or Mexico. I am informed that he is rather set upon making an example of me. I have received the grisliest Christmas presents from Europe.”

“So did Dumbledore,” Harry said, remembering. “And he is not afraid.”

“Of course he isn’t. Have you seen his wand, Harry? Mark my words, that wand is dark. I can barely be in the same room as him without being affected by it.”

“Dumbledore doesn’t do dark magic.”

“The wand was Grindelwald’s, before it was Dumbledore’s. He won it in their last duel,” Voldemort rattled off the history. “I admit I am speculating from here onwards. The magic of the wand feels old to my senses. It is older than either of them. How did it come to Grindelwald, I wonder?”

“You think it is some ancient, dark artefact?” Harry guessed. Voldemort was fanciful at times. 

“I know it is. My sense for these matters is never wrong,” Voldemort snapped. 

Right. That was why the Killing Curse had backfired the last time. Harry decided that discretion was the better part of valour. 

“The soap is nearly done. May I help you wrap the bars?” Harry asked politely. “You have made a large batch this time.”

“We run through it quickly enough,” Voldemort said distractedly, helping Harry wrap the bars up.

Harry smiled. That was true. Recently, he had often spent more nights here than at Hogwarts. 

“Have you planned your move?” Harry asked him. He was confident Voldemort would move north as soon as Dover was taken. 

“I will move if London is taken,” Voldemort said. “Harry, this is no trifling matter. Learn how to make port-keys. Improve your Occlumency, for both our sakes. Keep your wand with you at all times. Avoid travelling with Dumbledore. That man is a magnet for Grindelwald, from what I know of their history. If London falls, and if you are in danger, do not join me. Instead, wait for me at the place where you swam. Do you understand?”

“I will be in Scotland,” Harry reminded him gently, touched by the concern. “I have nothing to worry about. You are the one so close to London.”

“I have no intent to endanger my life. You, on the other hand, are a hero.”

“Of our prophecy,” Harry reminded him. “I am not required to be the hero in any other war.”

“It would do you good if you remembered that. At least, learn to Occlude better, and learn to make port-keys.”

“I will.”

“And Harry, if you are captured or cornered by Grindelwald, do not use the bond. At all.”

“Why?” 

“He knows what Horcruxes are. He knows how to destroy them. And unlike Dumbledore, he does not care about the container.” 

Harry nodded, feeling ill at the thought of it. He did not mind death in war, he realized. He minded dying because he was a container. 

“Will London fall soon?”

“I believe it shall hold out, if under a siege,” Voldemort assessed. “Rufus Scrimgeour is a veteran. He likely has the defence well-planned. There will be a heavy toll to defend the city, but it will be defended for a long time.”

“Until the lines of defence are all gone?”

“Until Dumbledore meets Grindelwald for a duel,” Voldemort told him. “That is how they settled the war the last time.”

“What happens otherwise?” Harry asked, worried. He did not want a duel. Dumbledore was powerful, but Grindelwald was unstoppable, or so the escaped Aurors from European countries said.

“What happens in a siege? The food supplies run out. Attrition as men desert. Families trying to escape. Rising crime within the city. Desperation, low morale, betrayal, defeat.”

“What will you do if London falls?” Harry asked. Difficult as it was to believe that Voldemort planned to hide for the entire duration of the war, Harry had not seen indication of some other strategy so far. He doubted Voldemort would confide in him, but he was curious, and there was nothing lost by asking. 

“Hide, of course,” Voldemort said, and smoothly changed the topic.

—-

The school was not reopened after the holidays. The teachers stayed there, preparing supplies to shelter an exodus from London if it came to that. Harry wanted to stay too, but Dumbledore moved him to the Weasleys.

“I don’t want to endanger them,” Harry had tried telling Dumbledore. “I have got a price on my head, just the same as you.”

“Molly wouldn’t hear of any other arrangement,” Dumbledore said. “Besides, it will be safer there, now that Remus will also move to their house from Grimmauld. He will protect you.” 

And who will protect you? Harry wondered. He knew better than to ask. So he nodded and obeyed. He knew that he would not be able to sneak out to see Voldemort, but that was all right. He suspected Voldemort would be too busy evacuating north. And Harry was keen to seen Ron and Hermione, and to find out what the Order was up to. Dumbledore did not involve him in Order business, saving him for the meetings with Fudge. He suspected that Ron and Hermione were more involved in the work of the Order, but he was all right with that too, given his bond to Voldemort and how he was emotionally compromised. Unlike the Harry of Fifth Year who had wanted to know everything, the Harry of now was perfectly happy to live on a need-to-know basis.

—-

“You are so thin!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. “Oh, it is good that you are here. We will feed you to put some flesh on your bones again!”

Harry looked at himself. Ron winked. Ginny said, “He has gained weight, Mother! Look at his cheeks!”

Right. She had not forgotten that he had refused to take her hand at dinner that day. Then Fred came in and said, “Whoa! Harry, you have been growing plump on Hogwarts food!” 

Harry grinned and quickly followed Ron up the stairs before he had to hear more. Then Ron said, “Fred and Ginny are right. What have you been eating?”

Harry shrugged. He had not even eaten at Hogwarts very often recently. His meals had been with Voldemort, who was a slow eater. That was it. Harry got through two servings in the time it took Voldemort to finish his portions. And Voldemort had claimed that he could not eat alone, so Harry often ate more than he usually did at Hogwarts. Harry had also picked up the bad habit of getting up for a midnight snack, made hungry after sex. 

“Is the Ministry under lockdown?” Harry asked. 

“Dad might not go in if things continue the way the are,” Ron said. “Percy has to stay there with the Minister though. How crazy that Percy got the most dangerous job of us all!” 

It was crazy. Percy was the most stolid, risk-averse man Harry knew. 

“With all this going on, nobody is worried about You-Know-Who anymore!” Ron was telling Harry, as they clattered up the stairs. “Hermione thinks that he will pull a surprise right in the middle of this.”

“He signed a legal document,” Harry said. “He can’t wriggle out of it, according to Dumbledore.”

“Harry, this is You Know Who!” Ron exclaimed. “He will find a way out of it.”

Ron could be as paranoid as Snape sometimes. Harry was sure that Voldemort was going to hibernate through it all, moving occasionally north as the situation warranted. 

“Well, he doesn’t have the numbers,” Harry said reasonably. “Not to deal with the Aurors and Grindelwald both. He is going to have problems with defectors going over to Grindelwald too.”

“Percy said that he showed up at Lucius Malfoy’s Christmas party wearing silk dress robes!” Ron told him in a hushed voice. 

Harry had noticed, during their argument, that Voldemort’s robes had looked rather nice. Why was it a big deal? Weren’t people supposed to wear nice robes to parties? He looked at Ron.

Ron waved his hands in a bat-like flap, and said conspiratorially, “They are Madam Malkin’s newest line. They are for…for special occasions, like weddings! Nobody wears those kind of robes to a Christmas party!”

“What?” Harry asked, blinking at Ron. Harry tried to recall the image. It had been a decent set of dress robes. And it had had more layers than Voldemort usually wore when Harry turned up. “Ron, I think you are taking this too seriously. He probably wanted to impress Fudge. Malfoy must have told him what to wear. I don’t think Voldemort has kept up with the fashion trends here.”

And it had been Christmas, hadn’t it? Maybe Malfoy had wanted to give Voldemort the most expensive, the most fancy set of robes for Christmas.

——

Hermione had joined Ron for the Winter Holidays. She spent half her time fretting over her parents’ safety and the other half fretting over Grindelwald’s invasion.

“It is not about when anymore,” she said sadly. “It is only about how.”

“The Aurors are doing well,” Ron tried to assuage her. “They held the lines at Dover again, and beat back the bastards.”

Mr. Weasley had told them tales of hundreds of soldiers on flying carpets coming across the Channel, and how the Aurors had set up wards and fought bravely to fling them back into the sea. There had been a few casualties but Remus said that the toll would be terrible once Dover had fallen.

“Dumbledore has a plan,” Hermione said in a small voice, as if she wanted to believe it badly. 

Harry was confident that Dumbledore had a plan. He was just unsure as to how much self-sacrifice that plan involved. He knew Dumbledore about as well as anyone else knew Dumbledore, which Harry suspected, was not that well at all. Yet, he had seen firsthand, in his own life, the consequences of standing for the greater good.

“How was your Christmas, Harry?” Hermione asked then, as if to draw them all away from the dark conversation. “You have gained at least five pounds! The food must have been truly good!”

“It was,” Harry agreed. He was starting to become concerned about his waistline, but he decided not to worry as long as Voldemort stared at him as if he were a feast. “What have you two been doing?” 

“Dumbledore has us working on ciphers again,” Hermione informed him. “It is challenging and fascinating work, but then I realize that each makes a difference to someone living or dying, and then there is only panic to get it solved as fast as possible.” 

She sighed. Harry knew she was thinking of the times when she had been unable to solve the ciphers in time. She was too sensitive, unlike Ron, who could stand back and look at the bigger picture and focus on the successes as well as the failures. 

“You are doing your best,” Ron chided her. “Don’t start blaming yourself for Coquelles.” 

Coquelles had been a rout, Remus had told Harry. Harry could imagine Hermione’s torment over that, since they had not been able to anticipate the ambush because of the ciphers not being solved in time.

Harry settled into the mad pace at the Burrow, working with Hermione and Ron in shifts, ciphering and deciphering whatever Mr. Weasley or Bill brought them. They heard snatches of news from Fred and George, who were still in London and corresponded frequently to reassure Molly of their safety. They had refused to leave until the Ministry ordered an evacuation. Harry remembered what Voldemort had said about sieges and hoped that it would not come to that. 

Dumbledore was rarely to be seen, but Harry was not surprised. The man was probably in Dover, or in London, coordinating the defences with Rufus Scrimgeour. Fudge gave interviews, kissed little babies, reassured a panicking public that everything was under control, and smiled as if he believed in all that he said.

Ron and Hermione exchanged covert glances ever so often that Harry felt compelled to leave them be for two or three hours everyday, leaving Ron’s room to them, and spending his time outside in the Weasley garden, de-gnoming the place. The activity kept him warm, and he needed the warmth, in the cold of January. Among the gnomes, with the smell of freshly-cut grass comforting him, he often thought of Voldemort. It surprised him. He thought of Voldemort whenever he thought of sex and that was nothing new. Somehow, he had also started thinking of Voldemort when watching Arthur and Molly interact, or when Ron tried to ground Hermione in reality.

“Daydreaming, Mr. Potter?” asked a smooth, silky voice. 

“Hello, Professor Snape,” Harry said mildly, resting back on his haunches and looking up at the looming black-cloaked figure above him. 

“It might behoove you to work on your Occlumency shields,” Snape said, looking neither angry not bitter. The anger and the bitterness would soon enough seep in, Harry knew. Despite themselves, despite their best attempts, they ended up in their vicious cycle within a few minutes of interaction. 

“The only three people who will want to look at my thoughts are the three people whom I can’t defend against,” Harry replied. 

“There is a price on your head, Potter!” Snape hissed, and Harry knew it was time for their cycle to begin. “If you are caught, everything and everyone will be compromised!”

Harry was about to retort when he noticed the sharp red curl of blood from Snape’s ears. 

“You are hurt!” Harry exclaimed, standing up. “Come in, come in, let Mrs. Weasley have a look at that!”

“I didn’t come here to be nursed, Potter. And I am not hurt. It is merely the effect of being too close to an explosion.”

Harry had seen that in some film Mrs. Figg had made him watch, so long ago. He stared at Snape, and the confounded man stared right back at him. Fine. Snape was hurt. Snape would spend the rest of his life standing rooted right where he was, arguing with Harry. The sooner they stopped arguing, the earlier Snape would have his ears seen to.

So Harry just said, “I will work on my Occlumency,” and returned to his de-gnoming. Snape huffed and walked away. Harry shook his head. Snape left him, as he always did, unhappy and angry. 

The evening did not improve after that. Hermione fell asleep after sex with Ron, and Ron did not want to wake her. So Harry ended in Ginny’s room for the night, which was awkward, because Ginny had taken it into her head to sway suggestively as she walked to and fro rearranging her books and clothes. She folded a pair of underpants so seductively that Harry quickly pled a need for a bath, and exited the room, leaving her laughing in pleasure. He entered the bathroom, leaned back against the door and closed his eyes, trying to suppress the memories that Ginny had awoken. Memories of the woman with the large cleavage he had met at the bar. He gulped, remembering that he had awoken in a street smelling like fish and cats, with Tonks looking at him in concern. He pulled his shirt open and stared at the scars on his torso, sickened and frightened. He looked at his wand, slightly bent, and remembered that Voldemort had killed them all. 

Twenty minutes. He needed twenty minutes for his bath. He turned the shower on and cast a singing spell at the shower-head, as Flitwick had shown him to do with suits of armour.

He clutched the wand, took a deep breath, and sighed when the port-key activated. 

He wound up in a large room, one he had not seen before, well-furnished and warm, and Voldemort was before an oaken table, poring over a map of Britain. He had a quill in his hand, and Harry could see that he had been making notations on the map here and there. 

“Harry?” Voldemort asked, eyes wide in surprise. “What are you doing here?” 

Harry shook his head and approached Voldemort, who set down his quill, and then pulled him into a light embrace. 

“Take a deep breath,” he ordered. “Close your eyes.”

Harry obeyed and gasped as Voldemort unfurled in his mind through the bond, comforting and heavy in his presence, suffocating Harry’s fears and memories both. He circled Voldemort’s waist with his hands and let his head fall onto Voldemort’s chest, exhaling as the mind in his mind worked magic. They stayed like that for a while, until Harry remembered his twenty-minute deadline. He did not wish to return. He had to. And he was sure that Voldemort was not at his residence and likely had been planning for a meeting. 

“I have to return,” he said reluctantly. 

“I heard that you have been moved to the Weasley house,” Voldemort murmured, slipping his hands into Harry’s hair and drawing firm circles on the scalp. Harry sighed and rubbed his scalp against those fingers in pleasure.

“I am there,” Harry answered. “I heard that your Christmas party robes are the talk of the town.”

“What? I wore what Lucius gave me,” Voldemort said. “Why was it remarkable? Dumbledore wore lavender, did he not? My eyes were in pain for the duration of the entire meeting.”

“It was from Madam Malkin’s new line…for special occasions,” Harry said, tipping his head back and meeting Voldemort’s baffled gaze. “It is what wizards wear when they are planning to get some, I hear.”

“It did not work, then,” Voldemort remarked, referencing their bitter argument that night. 

“I would be more curious to know why you were advised to wear that,” Harry rejoined, leaning in for a kiss.

“Draco Malfoy is eighteen and the spitting image of his grandfather,” Voldemort told him. “I can readily guess as to what Lucius might have been trying to indicate.”

Harry gripped Voldemort by the neck and pulled him down for a fierce kiss, letting him what Harry’s thoughts on that were. 

“Stop mauling me,” Voldemort breathed, pulling away, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “I will find it hard to fuck anyone else after fucking a hero.”

“You are turned on by heroes, aren’t you?” Harry whispered, stroking the front of Voldemort’s robes in as lewd a manner as he could think of. He backed Voldemort against the oaken table and inhaled sharply when Voldemort spread his legs in invitation.

“I am aroused by a great many things,” Voldemort replied, thrusting his hips at an angle that sent Harry mad. “We cannot explore any of them, right now, since you must return.”

“I have nine minutes,” Harry said, looking at the time. “Time enough for you to open your robes, take your cock out and show me how badly you want a hero.”

Voldemort laughed and unlaced his robes swiftly. He left them parted open, so that Harry could stare at the long line of his torso leading to the stirring arousal at the apex of his legs.The contrast of the black robes against the white skin made Harry shudder in pleasure. 

“Come here,” Voldemort demanded. “Suck my fingers. Get them wet. I like the sensation of warm, wet fingers on my nipples.”

Right. Why had Harry thought he would win at this game? He never did, except when Voldemort let him win. The sight of wet fingers, fingers wet with his saliva, fondling those nipples into tautness was too much and Harry groaned. The fingers streaked down the narrow line of chest, until they lingered over Voldemort’s cock.

“More lubrication,” Voldemort whispered, offering his hand to Harry, palm up. “Be a good boy and spit into my palm for me, won’t you?”

“Oh,” Harry muttered, obeying, struck by how unexpectedly arousing that was. Voldemort brought the hand to his cock and began stroking himself in steady rhythm, his eyes drifting shut despite his best efforts to keep them fixed on Harry.

“You are the most beautiful creature I have seen,” Harry murmured, surging to push Voldemort down onto the table, onto the large map, and then pulling away Voldemort’s hand to replace it with his own. He did not stroke with that steady rhythm Voldemort liked. He stroked rough and jerky, and he felt Voldemort’s hands coming to grip his shoulders, and Voldemort’s voice whispering his name again and again, and Voldemort’s breath panting and jagged.

He came with Voldemort, and wondered if they had somehow managed to synchronize their orgasms similar to the way Hermione explained that girls synchronized their menstrual cycles. He shook that image out of his head, dismayed. God, he had to forget that. Or maybe he should remember it, just in the hope that Dumbledore would catch it in his head the next time he decided to take a walk into Harry’s mind.

A sharp Cleaning spell caught him in the groin and he nipped at Voldemort’s lips reprovingly. 

“You do have to go, hero,” Voldemort told him. “And I have to salvage my map for a very long and tedious meeting that will begin in fifteen minutes.”

Harry got up, kissed Voldemort lingeringly once more, and drank in the sight of the satiated figure half-lying on the table, and said with great fondness, “Blood of my blood.”

Voldemort’s eyes lit up at the term, but he concealed that quickly. Harry shook his head affectionately and returned to the Weasley shower.

—-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I completed it finally! It should be done posting by Nov 1st, ending up at 100 K words, roughly. Thank you for your patience.


	15. To Canterbury we hie

Ron spent a great deal of time gazing at Hermione. He did little things for her: he tucked her curls of hair back behind her ears when they fell into her eyes, he had Fred and George buy him a large stash of Cadbury’s from Muggle London and gave her small squares whenever she got too engrossed in her deciphering, bringing a wan smile to her lips (Cadbury’s was her favourite, a delicacy her parents had forbidden her), when they heard bad news, he hugged her and squeezed her arm in silent support. He had endless patience for her highs and lows. 

How did Ron learn all this? Harry wondered. Had he picked it up from his parents? From his brothers? 

“Harry!” Dumbledore called out.

Harry rose to his feet and brushed his dirty palm on the overalls Mrs. Weasley had given him. 

“Professor!” Harry greeted him, relieved to see his mentor unharmed and walking briskly. 

The Weasleys treated him like one of their own, Ron and Hermione were his best friends, but Harry had felt alone. Perhaps he had become so used to Dumbledore and Voldemort that he felt incomplete in the company of less complicated people.

“Honing your house-keeping skills?” Dumbledore enquired, as he joined Harry and squeezed his shoulder fondly. 

He was clad in his blue robes and Harry could see small rips and shreds on the fabric. Dumbledore had been duelling. 

“You have been in Dover?” Harry asked, concerned. “Were you on the front-lines?” Harry shook his head. Dumbledore would have gone to the front-lines, of course.

“There wasn’t a front-line left when I led the retreat to Canterbury,” Dumbledore said sadly. 

“Albus!” Arthur Weasley called out then. Bill and he were standing at the front door, watching them curiously. “Won’t you come in?”

“I have to be going, unfortunately,” Dumbledore said politely. “I came by to inform Harry of a recent development regarding his training. We shall speak more at the Order meeting, Arthur.”

They nodded and went back in. Bill gave Harry a reassuring smile before he closed the door. 

“Harry, I have to request that you should consider returning to the Dursleys. You are Voldemort’s Horcrux. You are my greatest weakness, as well. Grindelwald knows he can bring us to our knees if he captures you.” 

“I am coming with you,” Harry said firmly. “I can be useful. I can keep the Ministry happy, at least.”

Harry had expected Dumbledore’s plan to have him moved to the Dursleys. Where else would he be protected the most? Ron and Hermione were here. The Weasleys were fighting. Remus was fighting. Harry shook his head. Dumbledore was fighting and Harry knew he would not leave the old man. His trust in Dumbledore had waned with the years, but his love for the man had only grown.

Dumbledore looked at him carefully, as if etching him into memory, and said, “I see that you were right and I was wrong, Harry. You have not changed.”

“No, I have,” Harry said wryly. “I am not going to the Dursleys willingly. I am not going to let you do what you think is best for me.”

“I cannot take you with me,” Dumbledore replied quietly and Harry felt that his heart would break on seeing the sadness in his mentor’s eyes. Dumbledore had never looked so hopeless and so determined and so alone. Harry was familiar with all of that. No, he had been. Harry had been familiar with all of that, until he had fallen in love. Strange that Voldemort made him feel less alone and more hopeful. 

“You don’t think you will return?” Harry asked softly. 

Dumbledore smiled and clasped his hands, and the gesture took Harry back to his First Year. 

“All right, then,” Harry said gently, daring to place his hand on Dumbledore’s clasped hands. Then he dared more, took a deep breath, and said, “Let me come too. I can help, Albus. I will.”

Fucking Voldemort had evaporated Harry’s respect of boundaries, clearly. Still, this had been worth it. Dumbledore looked less alone, for a scant moment, before he shook his head firmly. 

“This is not your war to fight. You will have Voldemort to deal with, once this is over. I cannot be there to help you. Harry, about the Horcruxes-”

“Never mind Voldemort,” Harry cut in. He had thought about this in great detail. “He is only averse to heroes, not to politics. If you and I are both dead, he will just go mainstream and try to win an election.”

“You don’t know him as I do, Harry. I have watched Tom Riddle for a very long time,” Dumbledore reminded him.

“And he has changed,” Harry said. “The world has changed and he has had to change with it. He is more rational these days, except when it comes to prophecies and Albus Dumbledore. If left to himself, he would just be a soap-maker selling soaps at ridiculous prices at Harrod’s.”

Dumbledore laughed at that, and it was a sad laugh. “He used to make his own soap even when he had been at Hogwarts,” he told Harry, eyes distant as he remembered. “His skin was sensitive. There was a Slytherin prank switching out his soap that had him turning up to class covered in rashes. Madam Cole told me that they had to stop bathing him when he had been a babe, because his skin reacted badly to the industrial soap they used.” 

Oh, Harry had not known that. He was glad that he had made his soaps with the same ingredients that Voldemort used. 

“When I was a Professor and handed out detentions, I liked asking my students to create something they wanted to and give it to me. It was more productive than writing lines or cleaning the Trophy Room was. He ended up in detention with me often. He made candles. He was skilled,” Dumbledore continued reminiscing. “I took those candles with me to Europe, when we were fighting Grindelwald the last time. On cold nights by the Danube, we hunkered down in tents, poring over maps for long hours, and the candles guttered in the pale of dawn, and we smelled of rosemary.” 

Dumbledore’s words conjured visuals in Harry’s imagination, of young Tom Riddle making candles while Dumbledore watched, of Dumbledore cold and brave prepared to fight Grindelwald for the sake of people who did not care enough about anything, of rosemary reminding soldiers of a home that they might have never seen again.

“I can take you with me on one condition,” Dumbledore said finally.

“I must do as you say?” Harry asked. 

“Yes, I want your word.”

“Professor-”

“I want your word, Harry.”

“Yes, you have it,” Harry said, conflicted. “Does Snape know what you are going to do?”

“No, Severus…tends to be affected negatively by decisions of this nature,” Dumbledore said delicately.

“You should tell him,” Harry said quietly, knowing that he was trying to help a man who hated him a great deal, and still wanting to do it remembering his mother who had defended the man. “He does worry about you.”

“You have altered my plans enough for the night,” Dumbledore said. “Let us go and tell your hosts that you will be leaving with me. We would not want to worry them, would we?”

“No.”

—-

“Harry!” 

It was Remus. There was a fresh curse-scar on his face. He looked as if he had not slept in weeks. The tents were small and men sat outside by large fires bundled against the winter cold of Canterbury.

Harry turned to Dumbledore, but the man was already surrounded by Aurors and Ministry officials.

“They came in the morning, in grey uniforms, carrying a flag showing the Nurmengard prison,” an Auror was telling Dumbledore. “They came as if they were being chased by Dementors, pressing madly against our front-lines. Whatever they are afraid of is behind them, not ahead of them.” 

“Why are you here?” Remus asked Harry, and Harry felt guilty about the frown-lines on the weary face. Then he remembered how alone and damned Dumbledore had looked earlier. 

“I came to support Dumbledore,” he replied firmly. 

“This isn’t your war,” Remus said harshly, clasping Harry by the shoulders. There was only fear in his eyes. “You said that you wanted to stay out of it.”

“I want to stay out of the war,” Harry admitted. “I can’t stay out of it if Dumbledore is going to fight, Remus. Can’t you see?” 

“If this is about some notion of loyalty-”

Harry was Voldemort’s last horcrux. Dumbledore had been destroying horcruxes. Harry was Voldemort’s lover. He was Dumbledore’s man. He had been alone in a cupboard for ten years and he spoke Parseltongue. He had cast a Patronus at thirteen and fought off Voldemort at fourteen. Two men understood him, and they both had reasons to want him dead. He wanted to make sure that they survived this war. 

Ron and Hermione were Harry-the-orphan’s friends, and they were the best friends he could have had. Only, Harry was not an orphan anymore. He belonged. 

“He is my friend,” Harry said firmly. “You know better than anyone else what people do for their friends.”

“Ah, Harry,” Dumbledore cut in then. “May I show you to our tent? Remus, I believe Kingsley has been searching for you.”

Remus looked at Harry imploringly one last time, before shaking his head and taking his leave of them.

“Lead on,” Harry replied, long resigned to fate and Dumbledore and Voldemort. 

The tent was ancient and smelled like mothballs. The only picture was unmoving and it looked to be a portrait of a young girl. Harry recognized it from Skeeter’s biography: Ariana. He looked away uncomfortably. There were two cots and a partition separating them. There was a rickety table overflowing with books and maps. On a side-table, there was a tea-kettle and many spindly glass instruments. 

“That was a spirited defence,” Dumbledore said then, not looking at Harry. 

“I surprised Remus.”

“You surprised me,” Dumbledore said. 

Harry met his gaze, wondering why Dumbledore was staring at him as if seeing him for the first time.

“You are your mother’s son, truly,” Dumbledore said finally, with a wistful smile. “She was fiercely protective of her friends.”

“Yes, she was,” Harry whispered, remembering her defend Snape, remembering her standing against Voldemort to defend Harry.

An owl swooped in, and dropped a scroll at Dumbledore’s feet. He bent to pick it up. Harry found his face a study in resignation as he read the contents.

“What is it?” 

“I will duel Grindelwald at the Cathedral tomorrow.”

“We must-”

“No, I must. It is what he wants to keep the Muggles out of this war. Get some sleep, Harry. It will be a long day for you.”

“Right,” Harry said, feeling frightened by it all. He moved towards the empty bed. It was bare and neatly made. It was nothing like the large sprawl that was Voldemort’s bed. The blanket, folded, reminded Harry of the bear furs that Voldemort hibernated under.

“Harry, go on,” Dumbledore said then, not unkindly. “Come back in the morning.”

—-

Voldemort was asleep. Harry watched his profile in the dim light of the dying fire in the grate. Then he went about throwing a log and raking up the fire. The crackling did not wake the sleeping man and Harry was glad for that. He climbed into the bed and lay awake.

Petunia had taken Dudley to see the great cathedral of Canterbury. Harry had wanted to see it, then. Later, many years later, Hermione had described the place after visiting it, and Harry had wanted to see it. She had promised to take him there after their NEWTs. He swallowed thinking about the forlornness stamped on Dumbledore’s features. Frightened, he shook Voldemort awake.

“Harry, go back to sleep,” Voldemort complained, slipping an arm around Harry’s waist. “It can wait for the morning.”

“No, it can’t,” Harry whispered, mopping the sweat off his brow. “Please wake up.”

Voldemort stirred awake and blinked a few times. 

“What did Dumbledore do now?”

“He is fighting a duel with Grindelwald tomorrow at Canterbury!”

“Harry, there is no use fretting about that. There is a prophecy about them.”

Harry stared at the man in disbelief. 

“There is a prophecy about us too!”

“Yes, but we don’t want to kill each other. In their case, they do want to. It is different,” Voldemort informed him.

“I don’t want Dumbledore to lose,” Harry whispered, clutching Voldemort closer. 

“I want him dead,” Voldemort muttered. “I also want Grindelwald dead. Hopefully, they manage that tomorrow.”

“Why do you hate him so much?” Harry asked in a small voice. 

“How can I count the ways? The most significant reason is that he fucking refused to believe me when I told him that he could kill me cleanly in Albania, when he had cornered me. I did want to die then, you see, and the idiot could have done me that courtesy. Instead he cajoled and used mind-magic, and failing, used more arcane arts, to try and find out where I had concealed my Horcruxes. I told him that the horcruxes did not matter when I wanted to die - that my soul was tethered only by my desire for life. He persisted, refusing to believe me, until I tired of waiting for my death and fought back, and he had to flee in the face of my vicious wild magic.” 

Harry thought it was surprising that he did not find it difficult to imagine: of wild magic, desperate and determined, lashing out, and of Dumbledore refusing to believe. Harry wondered he might have done if he had been in Dumbledore’s place. In a different place, in a different time, he had not listened to Wormtail, had he? Voldemort was different, though. Voldemort was his. Harry felt a sob escape him and he quickly stifled it. 

“I am glad that you did not die there,” Harry said quietly, as Voldemort’s fingers came to wipe the tears off Harry’s cheeks. “I am glad that you fought back and saved yourself. I am so fiercely glad that you are here.”

Harry knew that Dumbledore was sometimes biased. He also knew that Dumbledore tried to do the best he could, for everyone. Tom Riddle had been an exception that Dumbledore had neither understood nor sympathized with, and Harry could not blame the Headmaster for that. After Grindelwald, Dumbledore would have been willing to do anything if it meant preventing the rise of another Dark Lord. 

“You aren’t cut out for any of this,” Voldemort murmured, straddling him and kissing him slowly, as if to draw the fierce sorrow right out of him. 

Harry was unsurprised when he felt ropes tying his feet to the bedposts. His clothes vanished. Voldemort anticipated him easily. He felt his sorrow snuffed out by want when he felt fingers working his body into a dance of desire. 

“Look at you,” Voldemort whispered. 

“I don’t need to,” Harry replied. “I am looking at you.”

“Harry, Harry, you tempt my restraint.”

Harry inhaled sharply when he felt Voldemort inside him, moving slowly with rhythm, driving Harry into madness inch by inch. He wrapped his arms around Voldemort and pulled them closer, as close as he could have them be, hoping that the proximity would break Voldemort’s restraint. 

“You are not going to make me move faster,” Voldemort said with a laugh, and as unfaltering in his rhythm as he had been earlier.

Harry moaned. This was what he needed. He needed Voldemort unyielding and strong, above him, in him, determined to pleasure Harry into oblivion at his own pace. He had loved plunging into Voldemort too, but he preferred this. He wanted to thrash and moan, to be free to luxuriate in his helplessness, all the while secure in Voldemort’s iron restraint. 

Harry came first, and then Voldemort continued fucking him through his orgasm, making Harry cry out in his sensitive state. 

“Take it,” Voldemort ordered hoarsely. 

So Harry took it. He felt as if his mind floated free of his lax and supine body. Voldemort’s pace had broken slightly, but he kept on, driving Harry’s trembling body into another orgasm that was dry and wracked his nerves into pieces. And then, and only then, Voldemort let his control break and surged into Harry, fucking rough and hard, until he came with Harry’s name on his lips. Voldemort moved away and cleaned them up. Then he dragged Harry close and raked his fingers through Harry’s disarrayed hair.

“You are perfect,” Harry breathed, when he felt a glass of water being held to his mouth.

“I strive,” Voldemort said, and Harry could hear the smile in his voice.

Harry drank the water down in needy gulps and then rested his head on Voldemort’s chest, thinking about sex. He had once heard the sound of spanking in Ron’s room, and Ron had been counting. He squirmed. It had made him uncomfortable. Later, it had made him curious and antsy. Hermione had said they often liked a bit of variety. Harry remembered that Cho had also been very eager in asking Harry to spank her. He squirmed more. How did he broach these topics with Voldemort? Did he need to? He was fairly sure that he did not like to be subjected to these kind of fetishes, but did Voldemort fantasize about them? That catsuit fetish had been alarming enough for Harry. What if Voldemort wanted more? He did like tying Harry up. And there had been the cock-ring. Harry squirmed again. 

“Don’t do anything…heroic,” Voldemort said then. “This is Dumbledore’s war. I hope he has had the good sense to bind you to obey.” 

“He made me swear,” Harry muttered. “I am not worried. If Dumbledore’s wand is special, like you said it is, then he stands a better chance. And he won even without the wand, the first time around.”

“Revenge is a superb motivator,” Voldemort reminded him. “Grindelwald has been locked up there for four decades, Harry. I hear that he changed his standard to show Nurmengard.” 

“He still has the wand,” Harry said hopefully. 

“True. The wand is odd. I have fought it more than once. If Bella were a wand, she would be that sort of wand. Bloodthirsty.”

What a strange analogy. Harry frowned, trying to remember any indication he had felt the same. He had not. Dumbledore’s wand reminded him of the man himself: gnarly, unyielding and powerful, a solid bulwark defending all that needed to be defended. He decided to let the analogy pass. Voldemort’s words were best taken with large pinches of salt when it came to Dumbledore.

“I like it when you fuck me,” Harry said, going back to what his original train of thought had been.

Voldemort did not reply, though he tweaked Harry’s ears fondly. It should have made Harry happy, but he felt slightly sickened since he remembered with great clarity how Tom Riddle had done that to Abraxas in the Pensieve memory Harry had been shown. He knew it would only start an argument if he brought it up. He would get angry and say cruel things, and Voldemort would do cruel things, and Harry did not want to go there this night. So he forcibly dragged his mind back to the original topic. 

“I often wonder what you like,” Harry said. “I didn’t know in the beginning that I liked it better when you top. I know now. I am telling you about it. So what do you like?” 

Voldemort replied, “I haven’t felt anything amiss in our existing arrangement. You needn’t fret.”

“I am not fretting! I just want to know what you like in bed!”

“I am not very picky, Harry. You should know that by now. I am careful. You are the first wizard I have been fucked by,” Voldemort said then, tweaking Harry’s ears again. Harry resisted the urge to bat his fingers away. This was more important. Voldemort’s words bore Harry’s suspicions out. He had been sure that Voldemort would not have taken the submissive role in sex with a wizard, unless it had been Abraxas. “I have enjoyed more…complete affairs with Muggles, back in my youth.”

“Not Abraxas?” Harry asked. 

“I would have let him, if he had expressed any inclination towards such activities. On some days, I wanted him to. As you know, I have occasional days where I like getting more than giving. No, it didn’t happen. He had preferred me to do the fucking, and had made that preference known without any ambiguity at the very beginning.” 

Harry stirred uncomfortably. He knew that Voldemort had been fond of the man, but it hurt to hear him speak so frankly about it. 

“What is the frequency at which you would like us to switch?” Harry asked, trudging on, wanting to know. Voldemort met his needs so easily, without Harry needing to state them. He wanted to learn Voldemort’s desires too. He was even willing to give the spanking business a try if Voldemort wanted, though he decided to draw the line at whips.

“Harry, I find pleasure in sex with you. I enjoy fucking you. It is far from hardship to indulge in your body so and I would do it thrice daily if I was capable of it. I enjoy it the other way around too. Take me if you fancy taking me. I won’t deny you or myself the pleasure. If I crave it in particular, I will ask, as I have asked you before.” 

“Oh.”

“There is something else on your mind.”

“Yes, well, um, it is only that I know many people like to spank,” Harry said in a quick gush, getting it over with as quickly as he could. He was glad that it was dark. He could still feel Voldemort’s chest moving in silent laughter. He poked the man irritably. 

“Did you want to be spanked, Harry, my hero?” 

“What?” Harry exclaimed. “No! Of course not! Only, if you wanted, we can do it.”

“Then is it the other way around?” Voldemort asked, amusement stark in his voice. “Did you perhaps wish to spank me?”

“You don’t even have an arse to speak of, you scrawny creature,” Harry muttered, feeling that his mature discussion about sex and fetishes had all gone wrong terribly. Voldemort laughed. “You know I don’t want to. I like it better when you boss me around.” 

“I have tame tastes in bed, apparently,” Voldemort continued drolly. “I hope that you will warn me before surprising me with a Saint Andrew’s cross.” 

“What is that? Never mind,” Harry said firmly. “Don’t tell me. So you don’t want any of it?”

“Harry, I am involved in power games everyday. I don’t need to bring them to my bed. And I don’t desire them either.” 

“Oh.”

“I am not eighteen, Harry. I don’t correlate aspects of power, masculinity and dominance to sex anymore.”

Thinking back to Voldemort’s Muggle liaisons, Harry suspected that Voldemort never had correlated power, masculinity and taking the dominant role in sex. Harry knew that Voldemort was aware of what others thought, and that he had carefully restrained his indulgences to the dominant side when having sex with wizards or witches. He had let his guard down with Muggles, knowing that it would not affect his ambitions. He had let his guard down with Harry too. Why? Perhaps Voldemort had known that Harry would understand one day that there was no need to define his identity by how he liked sex. Perhaps Voldemort had sussed out early on what Harry truly preferred, and had let him work it all out on his own. In retrospect, it had seemed foolish to bring up spanking at all. Voldemort was usually very good at asking for what he wanted in bed, wasn’t he? 

“Did you like women and then stop liking them?” Harry asked. It was something that had bothered him greatly. Voldemort’s longest liaisons had been with men, but Harry had seen many Pensieve memories of Tom Riddle fucking women.

“It was unpopular to be homosexual then. It was fashionable to be bisexual. I didn’t mind fucking women and knew I was capable of pleasuring them. I chose to conform.”

Harry had thought that he liked women. Now Ginny’s cleavage reminded him of the woman who had lured him into clutches of the trafficking ring. It had frightened him enough to run to Voldemort from the Weasley shower. 

“Your case is different,” Voldemort said then, correctly guessing what was going through Harry’s head. “You underwent a traumatic experience at a time when you had not sorted out your sexual preferences. It is to be expected that you would be affected.”

Harry would have think more about it. Once this war was over, he had to sit down and figure it all out. His mind ventured back to the war. 

“Have you moved?” Harry asked. “The decor has changed. Looks Wizarding, even.”

“We are in London,” Voldemort replied. He did not offer more details. Harry decided to let it be. 

“Grindelwald is skilled at Transfiguration,” Voldemort said then.

That did not sound too deadly to Harry, at least until Voldemort said, “My spies reported that he is fond of Transfiguring men into fish and watching them die flopping about searching for water. I wonder what connects Dumbledore and him. They were born in different countries and had no interaction until Dumbledore went to fight him in Europe. Rather unusual.”

“What?” Harry asked in disbelief. Voldemort had sounded serious though. “You don’t know?” 

“What is it?” Voldemort asked.

“Didn’t you read the Skeeter biography of Dumbledore that came out last year?” 

“Should I have?”

“Yes, it would have told you what their connection is. Dumbledore was his friend, back when Grindelwald was staying with Bathilda Bagshot at Godric’s Hollow. They were planning to travel together, but then Ariana happened.”

“A girl they fought over?” Voldemort asked dubiously. 

“Dumbledore’s sister!” Harry exclaimed. “Seriously, where have you been? It was in the papers for ages last year. Do you even read the papers?”

“No,” Voldemort admitted. “I am a busy man. Tell me about Ariana. Did Grindelwald rape her?”

“No,” Harry said wearily. “There was an argument between Aberforth Dumbledore and Grindelwald. Grindelwald cast an Unforgivable. Dumbledore stepped in to defend his brother, and they began duelling. Ariana was caught in the crossfire and she died. Rita Skeeter wrote that it was never clear whose spell had killed the girl.”

“Oh,” Voldemort murmured, sounding taken aback. “I hadn’t known. This explains a great deal. Thank you, Harry.” 

“Read the papers yourself next time,” Harry said, still shocked that Voldemort had not known. “I can’t believe none of your Death Eaters brought you the news.”

“The Inner Circle curates what I hear,” Voldemort muttered. “They think I should have never heard the prophecy in the first place.”

Considering Voldemort’s irrationality on the topic of prophecies, Harry could not blame the Inner Circle for their caution. He supposed that it made sense they would try to keep news about Dumbledore to a minimum too, given Voldemort’s irrationality on that topic as well. Harry found the dynamics of Voldemort’s Inner Circle fascinating. They seemed to have more influence than Voldemort admitted and Dumbledore speculated. Perhaps the fiasco at Godric’s Hollow and the subsequent years fleeing from the Aurors and Dumbledore, and the trauma inflicted by Wormtail, had all been lessons to Voldemort, teaching him the value of trust and delegation. Harry wondered who comprised the Inner Circle. Snape had said that there had been a big reshuffle after Voldemort’s return. 

What had been the original purpose of the Inner Circle? Had they been there to protect Voldemort, a last line of defence? Had they been advisors? 

“Does Grindelwald have an inner circle?” Harry asked, hoping that Voldemort would shed more insight.

“I don’t think so. No reports have indicated the existence of one,” Voldemort said thoughtfully. “It is rather rare for someone so powerful to share power or trust. Dumbledore doesn’t trust. He delegates only legwork. He likes to be in the know while keeping others ignorant of his plans.”

“Do you?” 

“I did. Then I didn’t. Now I do, again. Abraxas, back in our school-days, had often reined in many of my impulsive responses. With the years, I trusted him more and more. Many of my peers in Slytherin eventually earned the trust too, with what they did. Abraxas then told me that I should put together a group of advisors, and that a powerful man is only effective if he had good advisors. Knowing when to listen, and whom to listen to, makes all the difference between losing and winning, he said. Power scales only with delegation. After his death, I slipped greatly, trusted less and less, until the Inner Circle was a caricature of what it had been originally intended as. How could I trust, when the man I had trusted the most had committed suicide in a place where we had first fucked? How could I trust when the man who had taught me to trust had sent me a birthday greeting to summon me to watch him die? I slipped greatly. Ah, I am repeating myself. When I returned, I knew that I had to change that. It is rather difficult. The men who advise me these days are not men I grew up with. I know very little about their generation and they know very little about what advice I would benefit from.” 

Harry thought about that. It seemed as if Abraxas’s influence had been more than the details Dumbledore had told Harry of. Then again, Dumbledore would have difficulty in believing that Voldemort could listen to advice, listen to another opinion. Harry was here, seeing first-hand the fallout of what Abraxas had done. He found it surprising that Voldemort would try again to build and trust his inner circle. 

“In a way,” Voldemort said quietly, “it is my attempt to do justice to what the best of Abraxas had been. He was powerful and rich, he was an excellent advisor, he picked the best out of the schools in their teenage years - Severus came to me through him, he was the bulwark that bolstered our early days in the face of the often brutal Auror raids. Long ago, before leaving the country, I had toyed with the idea of not returning. There were lands more wondrous and free, ripe for the picking. If not for Abraxas, I might not have returned.”

“You loved him,” Harry whispered, taken aback by Voldemort’s words. He had known that Tom Riddle had been attached to Abraxas, but he had never expected it to be more than lust and affection. 

“Abraxas believed me incapable of such a condition,” Voldemort commented. “He was kind enough to fling it as a casual retort whenever he could. He was sincere. He went to his grave thinking that he loved a cold-blooded automaton. It embittered him long before it killed him.”

“It must have been terrible,” Harry said softly, pulling Voldemort close and pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“It wasn’t. It was life’s truth, then, and it did not bother me overly.”

Harry wondered what life had been like for Abraxas. Had he spent every day with his wife hoping that Voldemort would demand him to stop? Had he gone to increasing extents to draw attention? Harry felt uncomfortable, thinking about how he had once tried to catch Ginny’s attention. There had been Cho before that. He remembered how Hermione had tried so hard to catch their attention, in their First Year. Attention and acknowledgement mattered. Harry knew that. He loved Dumbledore for many reasons, not the least of which was the special attention that Dumbledore gave him.

“Why didn’t you try to tell him?” 

“What would I have told him?” Voldemort asked. “It was hardly my fault that he had not noticed.”

It was surprising that Voldemort had still given himself over as best as he could to what he had with Harry. It was surprising that Voldemort let Harry be, without intruding on his every thought, scanning for betrayal. 

Harry wondered if he could have done the same, if he could have nursed a new relationship without bringing emotional mines from the previous fiasco into it.

Harry thought of the wand that would always take him where he belonged. He thought of how Voldemort had restrained himself when Harry had accused him of vile things. He thought of how Voldemort had first rescued him, and then killed his tormentors, and then spared him the memories, and then taught him to enjoy sex again. He thought of Voldemort holding him down and taking him, he thought of Voldemort allowing him to take, he thought of the gun that he had taken to carrying around, he thought of the Isle of Man and a posy of wildflowers. Here they were, spent in bed together, indulging in lazy caresses, with Voldemort willing to tell him tales of old grief when asked, keeping him company as he fretted over the morrow and Dumbledore’s duel. 

It had never needed to be said, Harry realized. It had been there, all along, as a reduction of actions. Harry was determined not to overlook it, not to question it. He would let it be, he decided. 

“Sleep, Harry. Tomorrow will be a long day,” Voldemort said, cloaking Harry’s mind with blankness, wiping away Harry’s tired thoughts. 

“It’s what he said,” Harry said sleepily, nodding off to the steady rhythm of Voldemort’s heart.

—-


	16. Of Henry and Becket

Harry woke up at five in the morning. Voldemort was awake too, and looked as if he had not slept at all. 

"The cathedral," Harry murmured, remembering why he had wound up worried in Voldemort's bed. Dumbledore. 

"Do you know the tale of Henry and Becket?" Voldemort asked him pensively. "Tennyson had a play about the events."

"The Dissolution of the Monastries?" Harry asked. "Hermione told me about that once. She said Becket was murdered in the Cathedral."

"Yes, he was. There arose a cult around the martyrdom in the years afterwards. Never mind that, now is hardly the time to regale you with the history of our fair nation." 

“I must be going,” Harry whispered.

“Yes,” Voldemort said, rising from the bed and walking to his desk. “Wait here, won’t you? I want you to take something back.”

“What?” 

“Here,” Voldemort said, shoving a small package into his hands. “Take it to Dumbledore.”

Harry frowned, but he had to leave. So he kept silent and clutched his wand.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said calmly, when Harry fell on the floor after port-keying back. Harry tugged his collar back up to cover the bite marks on his neck, but Dumbledore did not do him the courtesy of looking away. Instead, he watched him carefully, and sipped a small sip from his cup of tea.

Feeling the need to say something, Harry blurted, “He hasn’t read the Skeeter book yet.” 

“He has always been more fond of Muggle literature,” Dumbledore remarked. “Harry, we have to discuss-”

“No, no, wait. He told me to give you this,” Harry mumbled, shoving his package into Dumbledore’s hands.

Dumbledore’s eyebrows shot up and his wand came to dispel curses dark and malicious. Nothing happened. 

“He was half-asleep,” Harry said wryly. “I don’t think he was plotting.”

Dumbledore smiled at the comment and set to opening the package. There were candles, smelling of rosemary and fennel, and of something Harry could not place.

“Ah, this takes me back to the last war,” Dumbledore said, looking sorrowful. “There is an appropriate addition. If I am not mistaken, the scent is that of black roses. Thank him for me, won’t you, Harry? And there is a copy of the Skeeter book in my personal collection. Take it to him.”

Harry had never seen a black rose in his life. He wondered what it meant. He would have to ask Hermione. 

Dumbledore lit the candles and sighed. 

Harry hesitated, sensing that Dumbledore’s mood was strange. Then he made up his mind and said, “He is rather like you, I think. I don’t mean his morals.”

“Strangely, my brother once said the same,” Dumbledore reminisced. “He said that I hated because I saw glimpses myself through a broken, cruel mirror.”

“He is cruel. He is not broken,” Harry said firmly, remembering the morning’s conversation about Abraxas and the fucked up relationship they had, remembering how Harry himself had been treated so far. 

“Age must have helped,” Dumbledore said. “Age helps bring perspective and calmness.”

Harry’s hunch was that Godric’s Hollow had brought perspective and calmness. He did not try to explain. Dumbledore would always think that he knew Voldemort better than anyone else. Harry felt that Abraxas had known Voldemort better. Dumbledore had tried for years to defeat Voldemort, but Abraxas had actually managed the feat.

“Do you have your port-key on you?” Dumbledore asked then. “You must use it if the need arises. It shall take you to Grimmauld Place. Harry, your safety is paramount.”

“I have it,” Harry assured him. He did not promise to use it. Dumbledore narrowed his eyes and Harry nodded reluctantly.

“If I fall, you must go to the Ministry. Do you understand? London cannot fall. You must see to that, Harry.”

Harry stared at him. What was he meant to do? He was an eighteen-year old they had appointed to kill a Dark Lord. That had been mad enough. How was he to save London?

“Work with Rufus and Kingsley,” Dumbledore told him. “Voldemort will keep his truce until this is dealt with. You have nothing to fear from him. Have Minerva rein Severus in, if he does prove to be too bitter.”

Harry nodded. Dumbledore went on, “Nagini has not been dealt with. The other Horcruxes are destroyed. You must find a way of dealing with Nagini. I have had Miss Granger look into methods of destroying the one in you. You must ask her to continue the work. Do you understand?”

“I can’t do anything,” Harry bit out. “Fudge won’t take me seriously. Nobody will.”

“You are Harry Potter,” Dumbledore said quietly. “They will listen.”

Wasn’t that what Hermione had said when he had expressed his concerns about Dumbledore’s Army? And that had led to Edgecombe ratting them out.

Dumbledore pulled on his bright-blue robes, readying himself for combat. Harry rushed to the knapsack of clothes Molly had packed for him. He found a Weasley jumper and a pair of Dudley’s old jeans. That worked, he decided. Strange that he always tried to dress in decent clothes when he visited Voldemort, even if his clothes ended up on the floor within a few moments of arriving there. Hermione looked delighted whenever Ron dressed well. Maybe there was something to it. Harry had liked seeing Voldemort in those heavy, soft robes he had been wearing for the meeting. The contrast of the robes against the skin had made such an erotic picture when Harry had pushed the man back against the oaken table. Madam Malkin’s new line; if Harry made out of this alive, he was buying a set of robes and dandying up for Voldemort next time. 

Dumbledore breathed in the scent of the candles one last time, and said, “Let us visit the Cathedral, Harry.”

—-

Hermione had gone on and on about the cathedral. She had talked about Thomas Becket. She had ranted about the Dissolution of the Monasteries. Her eyes had been bright when she had spoken of the great choir. 

Yet, none of that had prepared Harry for the magnificence that Dumbledore had taken him to. He was used to Hogwarts. The cathedral, however, stood opulent and well-architected, bearing gracefully the marks of centuries, tall and silent, with its gleaming candlesticks lit by the sunlight streaming through the stained glass window panes. 

“Harry! Albus!” It was Kingsley, striding towards them. He asked Dumbledore, “So you are set upon this course?”

“Lead us on, Kingsley,” Dumbledore said cheerily, as if he was only a tourist passing through. 

Kingsley led them on, until they reached the far-east, and there stood a few men waiting on either side of a crypt. On one side was Remus and a few Aurors, including Tonks. On the other side were men wearing the grey uniforms of Grindelwald’s army. They parted and let another man, tall and near-emaciated, walk through. Harry could not identity him, not until he noticed the blue eyes that he had seen on page hundred-and-sixty-five of Skeeter’s book. 

“Gellert,” Dumbledore said softly. Harry felt proud of how unaffected Dumbledore’s stance was. 

“Albus,” the man croaked. His voice seemed to be permanently damaged. Harry gulped, thinking of what Voldemort had said, about Grindelwald’s revenge being decades in the making. The man’s gaze moved to Harry and lingered on the infamous scar.

“This is Harry Potter,” Dumbledore said cordially, as if he hadn’t conquered the man once and then locked him up in a fortress forgotten. 

“The boy who lived,” Grindelwald said thoughtfully. “The chosen one who shall defeat a coward who has seen it fit to scamper and hide in the far north at the first sign of danger.”

“He has good reason to avoid another debacle. It took him fifteen years to return the first time, after all,” Dumbledore said mildly.

“Ever so witty,” Grindelwald spat. “Why did you bring him here?”

“Harry, why are you here?” Dumbledore asked him then, blue eyes sharp and full of expectation. 

“I wanted to be here, to support you,” Harry said, feeling lame about that now, seeing the powerful men who were there to support them both. 

Harry could see their experience writ on their frown-lined faces, on the easy way they held their wands, in the grace of their postures as they stood watchful and assured. Harry was only eighteen and his hands were clammy. All that was remarkable about him was stamped on his forehead, and Grindelwald did not seem very impressed by that.

“Friendships are important, wouldn’t you say, Gellert?” Dumbledore asked.

“Are they more important than dead, little girls?” Grindelwald retorted. Harry had to force himself not to step back seeing the rage on Dumbledore’s face then. He had never seen the man so affected. He saw Remus beckoning. He quickly moved to go and stand at Remus’s side, feeling terribly frightened by the crack in Dumbledore’s composure. 

He was reminded of the Gunslinger quote Voldemort had recited, on the Isle of Man, when Harry had been blasting clay pigeons with the old Smith and Wesson. One day, if the war ended, and if he survived, he would visit America. 

Grindelwald bowed to Dumbledore. Dumbledore returned the gesture. They circled each other like wrestlers in a ring, their faces set in grim anger, their wands held at the ready, their robes cutting and swaying about their legs in measured grace. 

Harry had seen Dumbledore duel once before, in the Ministry, and then he had not even entertained the idea of Dumbledore losing. Now, watching the cruelty on Grindelwald’s face, remembering how long the man had waited for this day, Harry faltered in his faith. 

Spells flew loose from their wand-tips, bright and silent, and all Harry could see was blazes of light. Remus’s hand came to his shoulder, and Harry was not sure if it was to draw or give support. He was glad for it nevertheless. 

Nobody had told him how silent a duel could be, broken only by the sound of breathing of the duellists that grew harsher as they exerted more and more. Unlike Voldemort, who liked shouting his Unforgivables, Grindelwald and Dumbledore fought like men in those silent flicks Petunia loved. Yet, silence made it more potent, for Harry did not have anything else to grab his attention and his eyes were fixed on the criss-crossing beams of spell-light that the duellists swayed away from. Neither of them gave ground, Harry noted, and were more stationary compared to Voldemort.

Harry remembered Voldemort’s duel with Dumbledore. He had also heard of Voldemort’s duel with the Aurors during the siege in Derbyshire. Voldemort danced away from green beams of death, he had heard, until he had been cornered. Then he had switched strategy, Disapparating and Apparating at an ease that had unnerved his opponents. 

Then he was jarred out of his thoughts by a grunt, and saw Grindelwald reeling under an unseen force. 

“Your reflexes have slowed,” Dumbledore remarked placidly, as if he was at high-tea with the man who was trying to kill him. 

Grindelwald’s gaze narrowed and he let loose spells at a speed that frightened Harry. This was another difference, Harry realized. Voldemort would have taken Dumbledore’s bait, and retorted. Grindelwald seemed to know his opponent well and was not as easily distracted. Droplets of blood flew from Dumbledore’s left shoulder and Harry jerked in surprise. 

“The wand will not save you,” Grindelwald told his opponent. “It was claimed with blood before it came to you.” 

Dumbledore’s eyes were blazing as he defended against the flurry of spells. Harry sensed it then, cold and old, older than anything else, older than even the ancient stones of the cathedral. He pressed back into Remus’s touch, unnerved by the cold that touched him to the bone. This was death, Harry knew, somehow. Death was there, with them. He remembered, immediately, what Voldemort had said about the wand. He had passed that off as an instance of Voldemort’s fancifulness. He had been wrong.

“No!” Harry shouted, suddenly knowing what it meant. 

Voldemort had made the connection by pure instinct and speculation, but Harry knew more. Harry had read the biography. He had read Rita’s colourful account about the search for the Hallows. He had heard Luna blather on about her father’s research. 

He made to go forwards, to throw himself between them, to put an end to the duel, not knowing else to do. Dumbledore glared at him and his vow of obedience held him captive. Stricken, Harry realized yet another truth. Dumbledore knew. Dumbledore had known before he had set foot in the cathedral. Dumbledore knew the wand’s tale and still had decided to come there. There were two of them duelling, and then they were three, as the wand woke to Grindelwald’s thirst for vengeance. Dumbledore was a powerful wizard and subdued the wand’s sabotage easily in the beginning. Yet, fighting both Grindelwald and the wand all at once was taking its toll upon him. Remus seemed to sense that too, for he inhaled sharply, and when Harry turned to look at him, he only saw worry and fear. Harry gulped and turned back to face the duellists again, and he knew he was crying when he saw the inevitability stamped firm on Dumbledore’s serene face. 

Grindelwald began chanting in a voice raspy and strong, in a language Harry had never heard before, and the ground shook underneath their feet. The stained glass panes shattered, candlesticks fell, and the crypt cracked. Grindelwald’s chant grew louder and louder, and none of Dumbledore’s spells touched him. The chant soared and in Harry’s mind was conjured a black fortress nestled in mountains high. Everything stilled, and there was only Grindelwald left standing there, holding aloft the wand that had betrayed Dumbledore.

“It is done!” Grindelwald said, turning to look at Harry. Harry knew he was crying, knew that Dumbledore would want him stronger, knew that he was incapable of being a leader. 

Kingsley stepped forward, and said, “We cede Canterbury.”

Grindelwald nodded. He said briskly, “I shall give you half an hour to leave.” 

“I want his body,” Harry said then, unheedful of the tears and his broken voice. “I want to take him back to Hogwarts.”

Grindelwald walked to Harry. Remus’s wand rose, and Harry remembered James dying for him. He shook his head and stepped forward, meeting Grindelwald’s cold gaze without flinching. 

“It will be preserved. If you cede the school, you can have his body. I will even allow a burial ceremony. He was a friend, after all.” 

Harry stared at him. He remembered Dumbledore speaking to him before Erised’s Mirror, when Harry had been in First Year, dying to belong. 

“No,” he said calmly. “I can beg you if you want, but we will not give up Hogwarts.” 

“Beg?” Grindelwald asked in genuine amusement. “I am afraid I am not Voldemort, Harry. I have no desire to see anyone beg. I desire only to see the resistance broken, and the school and the fair city of London ceded. Now you should take advantage of my offer, and leave before it is too late. I am sure your country will have need of a hero before the end, and there is only one left.”

Grindelwald made a quick bow and strode away, his men following him. 

Remus gripped Harry’s shoulder. Good, because Harry needed someone to hold him grounded and upright, torn as he was after what he had seen. 

“Will you take him to Hogwarts?” Kingsley asked Remus.

“Yes, of course,” Remus said. “I will inform the teachers.” 

“Snape,” Harry cursed. “I will inform Snape. Please.”

“Harry, you cannot possibly think that is a good idea.”

“It isn’t, but anything else will be worse,” Harry said tiredly, rubbing his tears off. 

\------

So that was how Harry found himself in the dungeons. Snape was in the Potions classroom, alone and brewing, as if he did not have a care in the world. Harry strode in, and realized that was only an act. Close to, Snape’s eyes were red-rimmed, his hair looked askew as if he had dragged his hands through it and there were cuts on his wrists when Harry saw his sleeves moving up as he stirred. 

“You know,” Harry stated. 

Snape looked at Harry, and Harry had never seen a man look so lost. He wondered what he would do, what Dumbledore would have wanted him to do. What would his mother do? 

“He was very brave,” Harry said, knowing that it was stupid and Snape would tear him to bits over it.

“He always was,” Snape whispered, and tears streaked down his cheeks freely. He cursed and moved away from the cauldron, putting out the fire underneath with his wand. 

Harry stood there, wondering what to do, wondering what to say, disturbed by the sight of Snape’s grief, knowing that Snape would hate him for watching, and yet knowing that leaving was not an option. He was crying too, but he did not think that was likely to win him any favours with Snape. 

A flash of ruby and gold appeared then, and Fawkes went over to the grieving man, and Snape began sobbing in earnest, doubling down on himself, sliding down the wall gracelessly. Harry stood there, helpless. Fawkes would not let Snape kill him, he was sure, so he dared kneel and crawl to Snape’s side, and pressed a hand to the man’s shoulder lightly. 

“I will be fine,” Snape muttered. “Stop splashing me with your soppiness. You should learn a modicum of Occlumency.” 

Harry smiled weakly at the comment. He squeezed Snape’s shoulder once, got to his feet and left the man to his grief. 

“Go to your friends,” Snape called out after him. “Don’t mope alone.” 

“What about you?” Harry challenged. 

“I am not alone, am I?” Snape said, leaning his head back against the wall, petting Fawkes gently. 

“No, you aren’t,” Harry said softly, feeling very glad for it. Dumbledore had not forsaken the man, and Harry knew that doing so would have tipped Snape off the precarious line he walked, into despair and death. Perhaps compelled by the memory of his mother, Harry dared add, “You know where to find me.” 

“Unfortunately,” Snape muttered. Harry shook his head and left the man. 

—-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Becket and Henry II - British history about Henry II's attempt to bring about a weaker connection to the Roman Catholic Church. 
> 
> Black roses - Floriography (the language of flowers) have some associations regarding this.


	17. Oh, all ye marked ones

Harry’s next stop was not at the Weasleys’. He instead made for London, to the Ministry, grim and determined. There was little time left. He needed to see Rufus. 

“Harry!” 

It was Percy. He looked sad and frightened. 

“Were you there?” he asked. “We heard the news and it was so terrible! The Minister has been so upset!” 

“We are all of the same mind, then,” Harry said wryly. 

“Harry!” Percy exclaimed, disapproving. 

“I am sorry,” Harry said contritely. 

He had seen Dumbledore’s defeat, he had begged Grindelwald for the body, he had promised Dumbledore that London would not fall. He did not know how to go about it. All he wanted to do was to find Hermione and cry into her shoulder. Ron could be there too, and say wise things to uplift him. Or they could all cry together, huddled under the Invisibility Cloak, away from everything. 

“The Minister will see you now,” Percy said. “Come along.”

Harry followed Percy down the long corridors. They were headed to a level below the Minister’s office. Harry frowned. 

“Percy-”

And then he saw Bellatrix Lestrange standing guard outside a nondescript door. She looked as rabid and dangerous as she had during their last meeting. He took a deep breath, pushing aside all memories of Sirius, focussing on Grindelwald and Dumbledore, and his promise not to let London fall.

“Harry Potter, how was it watching Dumbledore die?” she asked him. 

“Good morning to you too,” Harry said. “Unless your master has a plan, you might have to watch him die.”

The door opened then and Harry saw a long table at the head of which sat Voldemort. There were Death Eaters in every other seat, except for four, where sat Fudge, Rufus, Amelia and Griselda. Percy hurried in and took his place behind Fudge. Kingsley came in and took his place behind Rufus. Harry took a deep breath and walked in. There was no seat left for him. 

“Bella, darling,” Voldemort crooned, reminding Harry of Vernon. “Why don’t you conjure a pair of chairs?”

Bellatrix obeyed and two chairs popped up at the far end of the table. Harry decided not to nitpick the gothic look of the chair and quickly took his seat. Bellatrix cut him a considering look and took the remaining chair. 

“Now that we are all here,” Fudge began in a quavering voice. Remus entered right then, and quickly strode over to take his place behind Harry.

“We are all of the same mind,” Voldemort cut in smoothly. 

“Are we?” Griselda Marchbanks asked. 

“My dear Madam, we can hardly not be,” Voldemort replied, rubbing his fingers over a familiar stick of yew. Harry had once thought that it was a stick of death. He had seen the true Deathstick though and he felt sweat break on his brow. They needed Voldemort. They needed Voldemort to stop hiding and defeat Grindelwald. There was no one else.

“We can be,” Harry cut in. “I want Grindelwald out of the country. I want Dumbledore’s body brought back to Hogwarts.” 

“Yes, indeed,” Fudge joined. “Exactly what is on my mind too, dear Harry!”

“We slightly differ,” Voldemort remarked. “I want Grindelwald dead and his army broken. I don’t care a whit about Dumbledore’s body.”

“We will not have peace until Grindelwald is killed or taken prisoner,” Rufus said uncomfortably. 

Harry knew it was true. Grindelwald was too ambitious to let them be, even if he was defeated in London. 

“Taking him prisoner seems to have worked none too well for Dumbledore,” Voldemort noted. “Excuse my unwillingness to contemplate the option.”

There were varying degrees of agreement in the room. Everyone looked at Harry. He swallowed, thinking about the serene inevitability stamped on Dumbledore’s face at the end, thinking about the wand that made Grindelwald powerful beyond imagination. 

Voldemort said then, “As a goodwill gesture, Harry will take swear a vow of obedience to me, and take my mark. In return, he will have Dumbledore’s body returned to Hogwarts as soon as Grindelwald is dead.” 

“What?” Fudge croaked, blinking as if he had suddenly come awake from a long trance. 

“No,” Remus said flatly, his terror giving way to rage. 

Everybody was speaking. Even some of the Death Eaters looked wary. Remus’s hand was gripping Harry’s shoulder hard. Harry placed a palm over the clenched fingers in reassurance. Voldemort looked serious and there was little indication of the playfulness that had marked his interactions with Harry at their last meeting in the Ministry. Harry retreated to the corner of his mind where he could sense Voldemort. It reassured him, even as the chaos erupted in the room as everyone shouted about the rights and wrongs of the proposal.

“What does it mean?” he asked, and winced as Remus and Kingsley both voiced their disagreement.

“We are bound by armistice. You have nothing to worry about until this war is over. This is different. This is what I want for using my resources to end Grindelwald.”

“And to return Dumbledore’s body to Hogwarts? Can you do it immediately?” 

“No,” Voldemort replied. “Grindelwald must have it at Nurmengard. It is poetic justice, after all. I think it is folly to attempt an attack on the black fortress for a corpse. You will have it once he is dead.”

Remus was saying something, but Harry rose to his feet and stared at Voldemort. The bond was a living, breathing thing, and Harry sensed no deceit. There was curiosity. No malice. 

“I will have an answer by the afternoon,” Harry said calmly, hiding his shaking fingers in the pockets of his jeans.

—— 

Hermione and Ron, along with many of the Order members, had come by to advice Harry. Mad-Eye’s advice had been short and to the point. It was unlikely to win them any wars. Now they were all clustered in Percy’s office, trying to come up with bargains that might be used. 

“This sounds like the time when Abraxas had snorted Muggle drugs and addressed the Wizengamot,” Griselda reminisced. She looked too old to actually be frightened by the situation.

“Abraxas Malfoy?” Ron asked. “Wasn’t he Draco’s grandfather? He was killed by mad horses!” 

“What a horrible way to die!” Hermione exclaimed.

“Rita Skeeter reported that he was named by his mother who had a vision of how he would die, killed by his own stallions,” Amelia Bones said. 

Torn into pieces that Voldemort had tried to put back together. 

In Harry’s mind, Abraxas was always in his thirties, reaching out to stop Riddle from harming his beautiful flower of a wife. In his mind, Abraxas had been Voldemort’s dysfunction, and a rock that had tethered him to sanity. Despite his best efforts, Harry could not forget the slight unevenness in Voldemort’s voice when the latter had spoken of how trusting the Inner Circle again was an attempt to do justice to the vision his old lover had. Voldemort treated his lovers better than he treated everyone else, at least according to the Pensieve memories and Harry’s own experiences. Harry was the marked one, but he was also the man’s lover.

“I will do this,” he said calmly. “I want Dumbledore buried properly. I want Grindelwald out of the country. I want this fucking war to end before all of us die on the frontlines defending people who will believe whatever Skeeter writes anyway.”

—- 

“Do you come of your own will?”

“I do.”

“Will you kneel before me?”

“I will.”

“Will you take my mark?”

Harry took a deep breath and looked up at the man. Somewhere in the throng, Mrs. Weasley was crying and her sobs tore his heart. _You will never cry again for me_ , he swore silently. _I won’t let that happen._

“I will.” 

Voldemort nodded to Bellatrix. She came forward and the fierce, exultant look on her face made Harry feel sick. He held still, however, when she brought her wand to his shirt and muttered a spell that left his torso bared. The sudden cold made him flinch. 

Voldemort rose to his feet and came forward. He did not touch his wand to Harry. Instead, he stood there, facing the kneeling boy, and chanted in the same language that he had used to make the portkey. Harry felt old magic rising through his blood, through their bond, deep from the earth beneath. The wildness of it caked over his fears and left him staggering. Bellatrix gripped his arm to prevent him falling face-forward. He opened his eyes and he saw a fleeting look of resignation pass over Voldemort’s features. 

\---


	18. Oh, how rare and beautiful

“Hello.”

“Harry,” Voldemort greeted him. He was seated at the edge of his bed, and looked weary. “How are you?”

Harry thought for a moment. How was he? He was tired. He was uncertain about what he had agreed to. The Order had not been happy with him. The Minister had been happy. Remus had looked at him so sadly that Harry could not bear to meet his gaze. Snape had looked betrayed when he had seen the sprawling web of intricate black curls over Harry’s torso. 

“Your mother did not die for this,” Snape had told him in a voice hoarse and broken.

“I know,” Harry had replied. “I am not her, Professor. I was raised by Petunia Dursley in a cupboard.” 

Flitwick had supported Harry’s decision and spoken out firmly about the pragmatism of it. Harry was glad for that. Flitwick had also said that the black runes on his torso became Harry well. Harry had decided to forget that compliment.

Harry’s thoughts were derailed when he felt a firm grip on his shoulder. Voldemort had approached him and was looking at him solemnly, in patient expectation of his answer. 

“I don’t know,” he said frankly. “You were right about the wand. I am tired. Can we sleep?”

“As you wish,” Voldemort moved to his side of the bed and held up the blankets for Harry. 

Harry walked around the room, blowing out the candles. Then he picked up Voldemort’s wand and set it on the bedside table, alongside his own. For a man as paranoid as Voldemort was, he was remarkably lax about the whereabouts of his wand. Perhaps he had sufficient confidence in his skills to defend himself without one. Harry shut down the train of thought and got under the blankets. When he rested his head on Voldemort’s shoulder, he felt the man tense.

“I know that it was not a chant to enslave me,” Harry said quietly. 

Voldemort exhaled and Harry could feel the relaxing of his body. Harry smiled tiredly, grabbed the closest hand, and pressed a kiss to the knuckles.

“If you wish to grieve him, I will not — I will do what I can to comfort you. You needn’t hide your sorrow.”

That set Harry’s tears off again. He had thought that he was empty after crying with Hermione earlier in the day. He still found himself crying, held tight in Voldemort’s arms, as he remembered Dumbledore.

“Shacklebolt provided me his memories,” Voldemort said, when Harry had finally fallen silent.

“I can’t add anything else to what he remembers. Help yourself, if you want to,” Harry replied. “Snape already has.”

“Severus is going to betray me again,” Voldemort remarked. “Lily Potter’s son bearing my mark.”

“He isn’t insane enough to approach Grindelwald,” Harry said. “There is nobody else to betray you to.”

“There is always someone,” Voldemort noted. 

Harry made a noncommittal sound, hoping that Voldemort would fall silent. He had a long day coming. There was the Order debriefing that Kingsley wanted. He had to talk with Ron and Hermione too. He had to also try and talk to Snape to make sure that the man did not go and do something stupid to avenge Lily’s son being marked. He pitied the man. Lily had died two decades ago. It was high time to move on with his life.

“Does my appearance cause you revulsion?” 

That had come out of nowhere. Harry blinked. Voldemort was unlikely to bring up a matter like that without something deeper in the offing. What could it be? He remembered that Voldemort had in the beginning said something about not being Tom Riddle. Had this lingered in the man’s mind all this while?

“You are attractive to me,” Harry said. “Tom Riddle was a handsome boy who grew into a handsome man, from the Pensieve memories I have seen. I noticed that, in the way I notice actors or rock stars. I don’t think I was ever attracted though. I found you attractive even during our first time, when I had you drugged out of your head.” 

“It is strange,” Voldemort said carefully. “I myself would be more attracted to the man I had been once.”

“Well, you weren’t really the most selective person, were you?” Harry said with a laugh. “You fucked Bernice Parkinson when you were in Sixth Year. Dumbledore looked green around the gills after we got out of that memory. God, you were lucky you didn’t catch something!”

“I was drunk on cheap absinthe at the time,” Voldemort informed him. “I hallucinated that she was a centaur. That doesn’t count.”

“I don’t think that wanting to fuck a centaur makes your case any better. And there was Frederick Goyle,” Harry continued. “His arse was hairy and freckled. There were pimples all over! You really don’t have a leg to stand on.”

“I was a teenager. That doesn’t count either.”

“Well, I am one too.”

“Hence my question.”

“If you do anything to change how you look, I refuse to voluntarily fuck you. There must be some clause about false advertising in your chant.”

Voldemort did not reply, though his hands were restlessly moving over the intricate black swirls on Harry’s torso.

“I am sorry,” Harry said gently, gripping the man by the shoulder. “I don’t know what the chant means. I do know it is something more…intimate than enslavement.”

“Am I so predictable?” 

Harry noted the strain in Voldemort’s voice. Sighing, he said quietly, “I have spent the last two years mucking about in memories of you. I have spent the last few months in your bed. Maybe I have noticed patterns. Maybe I get occasional flashes of insight. Don’t mind a random lucky guess.”

“On the other hand, Harry, I don’t mind,” Voldemort said then, pulling Harry forcefully atop him and kissing him lingeringly. “I don’t mind at all. Guess away.”

And Harry knew, that if Voldemort looked into the Mirror of Erised right then, his greatest desire was going to be wretchedly simple: to be known. Taking a chance, taking one of his famed blind leaps, Harry thrust his mind against the bond with all the focus he had, and Voldemort’s shields rose to meet him, unyielding as steel. 

“Drop them,” Harry demanded. 

“You can’t possibly-”

“Drop them now,” Harry ordered, leaning in to nip at the lips under his mouth. “If I can kneel before a hundred people and take your mark willingly, you can drop your shields.”

Voldemort exhaled and said softly, “I don’t know if I can. I have never done so before.”

Harry stilled, taken aback by the truth in that statement. Voldemort pulled him for a swift kiss and said, “Go on. Focus. Break them. You carry in you my magic, my mark, my soul.”

And Harry heard what had not been said: that he was the only one who could. He closed his eyes and desperately plucked his focus into sharpness. He was frightened as to what he would break into. He shook his head to rid himself of his uncertainty and rammed his mind against the bond again. The shields shook and Harry sensed that Voldemort was trying to let them fall. He rammed again, and he had never known his mind to be as focussed, not even when he had been stealing the egg from the Horntail. 

And the gates fell open and Harry felt his mind completely being overwhelmed by Voldemort’s thoughts, swirling dark and deep, skeins of memories and musings wrapping Harry tight and choking his mind. To ground himself, Harry gripped the shoulders underneath him. Voldemort’s sharp gasp tethered him to the physical, and he soared inside a mind that was eerily similar to his own, and the echoes of the chant resounded in his head.

“Enough!” Voldemort cried, and Harry’s mind was thrown back and the bond went to its usual calm. 

“Are you all right?” Voldemort was asking him, and with good reason, because Harry was shaking badly.

“It will pass,” Voldemort was saying, gathering the blankets over them. “You are unused to it, that is all. I suspect that there might be minds easier than mine for a beginner to start with.”

Harry laughed at that. And then started weeping. He was not sure why. Voldemort held him.

“Was it like this for you too?” Harry asked once his sobs had finally subsided. 

“No,” Voldemort said amusedly. “In the beginning, it was so addictive that it took me weeks to learn self-control. Later, it was so dreary that I had coerce myself to focus. If you knew half the tawdry and petty matters that linger in wizards’ minds, you would not attempt this again.”

“I didn’t feel anything tawdry or petty,” Harry said with conviction. “I only felt overwhelmed.”

“Well, my mind is on the war. ”

“That explains it, I guess,” Harry agreed. He calmed down and tried to pick apart the swirling sensations he had experienced.

“Can I ask you whose mind was the most interesting?” Harry asked. He wondered what his mind was like. It could not be too boring, he decided, if so many people wanted to pick it apart all the time. 

“That is difficult to answer. My mind is rather comfortable outside, if that makes sense. In company, it explores of its own accord. I am remarkably good at detecting lies. The negative is that I hardly can make sense of the overwhelming jumble of thoughts that I pick up, unless I focus completely on doing so.“

Harry remembered Tom Riddle in the Pensieve talking about how he knew when someone lied to him. Had Dumbledore been similar? He felt Snape was not like that. Snape hated Legilimency, Harry had felt often, and seemed to practice it out of necessity. Harry remembered Snape saying something about focussing on whatever was irrelevant to throw the interrogator off.

“Were you only allowing me to see specific things?”

“Compartmentalization is not a skill I possess. Severus, perhaps due to his upbringing and the constant bullying, had resorted to it as a child’s way of dealing with the world. I wonder if you knew that you do the same. It is really rare among wizards, I have observed. I did notice it in Bella once she returned from Azkaban. Perhaps it was so for Sirius Black too. Traumatic experiences lead us to compartmentalize sometimes.”

Oh. Harry mulled that over quietly. It made sense. Harry-the-orphan was very different from the Harry who was Ron’s best friend. There was Harry, Dumbledore’s man too. And now there was Harry, lover of Voldemort. That explained why Snape thought teaching him to control his emotions might work. Snape had learned it that way, after all. It might have worked, if Harry hadn’t been so emotional about Snape in the first place. 

He could believe it about Sirius. The man had been so fractured that it had shaken Harry the first time he had seen him at Grimmauld Place in his Fifth Year.

He wondered about Voldemort. How had Voldemort managed to deal with the whole Wormtail episode without resorting to something similar? Fear, Dumbledore had said, constituted the root chord of Voldemort’s psyche. Then he remembered how Voldemort had blindfolded him the first time he had taken Harry in his mouth. He remembered the hesitance and the gracelessness. Voldemort had said he had been out of practice. Harry wondered if that truly had been the reason. Voldemort had not offered to do that again. He had walked Harry through a session of sixty-nine happily, but he had not taken it upon himself to go down on Harry. Strange,since he had seemed sincere when speaking about liking cock-sucking.

Harry wondered if he should mention this. He thought it better not to. Then he felt Voldemort’s hand on his chest, gently tracing the curls of the mark, and remembered how Voldemort had fixed Harry’s fears about sex after the trafficking. 

“Suck my cock?” Harry asked, hoping his voice was confident and nonchalant. He might not have succeeded at all, because Voldemort’s fingers stilled on his skin.

“Clever boy.” 

Harry did not reply, waiting on tenterhooks to see what came of his bravado. 

“I don’t know if I can,” Voldemort said finally. “I can’t say that my sole attempt was successful. I have your charming propensity to nod off after sex to thank for: you did not notice how affected I had been.” 

Voldemort did not know if he could. Harry bit his lip, remembering the same statement used only minutes ago, when Voldemort had said he was not sure if he could lower his shields. He had asked Harry to break them. And when Harry had done that, he had touched a mind eerily similar to his own. Perhaps they were similar in some facets. Perhaps what worked for Harry might work for Voldemort too. He took a deep breath, summoning his courage for a blind leap of faith.

“If you won’t, I am going to fuck your mouth,” Harry said quickly, hating how weak and uncertain his voice was. 

Voldemort’s body tensed. Then he wilfully relaxed it and said with wry humour, “You are picking up so many of my habits.” 

“Only the good ones,” Harry said. “Being a hero, I am resistant to your evil habits.”

Voldemort laughed, doubtless remembering the first time Harry had said that.

There was no outright refusal. Harry straddled him quickly and felt Voldemort’s hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. 

“May I?” 

“Have I ever denied you an act of sex?” Voldemort parried.

Right. This had looked so easy in Ron’s magazines. The woman would just lie there, choking on cock and moaning, fingering herself, her eyes flared with lust and need, and the man would come down her throat, and she would come too, and everyone was happy. Harry was not even aroused. He rubbed against Voldemort hopefully, but the man seemed to be as turned on as he was. He gulped. 

Voldemort huffed and one of the candles in the far corner came to life. They were doing badly even in the dark. How did Voldemort expect this to go better in the light? Then Harry noticed how intently Voldemort was looking at him. Harry had stared at Voldemort so, long ago, when he had wanted to make sure that it was not someone else.

“You can’t expect me to be aroused,” Voldemort said in a practical tone. “Come here, feed me your cock. Let me taste you. Let me suckle you until you are hard.”

Harry relaxed. Voldemort was issuing orders. This he could do. He obeyed quickly. It was arousing to feed his cock into Voldemort’s mouth, inch by inch, and then he lost track of the orders because Voldemort’s tongue was everywhere, and was that a scrape of teeth? Harry yelped. A sparkle of confidence kindled in Voldemort’s eyes. Harry grinned and pressed a finger to Voldemort’s stretched lips, pushing until he could get it in, and he moaned as it was tongued thoroughly.

Voldemort’s hands were trying to position Harry higher up his chest. Harry caught on and quickly balanced himself over Voldemort’s head. He began moving up and down slowly, withdrawing whenever he heard the tell-tale sounds of choking. Then Voldemort did something so erotic that Harry had to focus desperately not to come immediately. The man moved up in a fluid motion and Harry’s cock was being milked deep in his throat. Harry dared to look at him and saw eyes bright looking at him ever so teasingly. 

“You are impossible,” Harry swore, as he came. The rapid contractions of the throat he was encased in made him shudder. 

Later, he lay spent on the bed, listening to Voldemort gulp down a glass of water. How had it come to this? Dumbledore had no idea, Harry decided. Nobody had a clue about what it was like. They were not functional, but they were not dysfunctional either, were they? Harry loved the man. He took pride in himself at helping Voldemort deal with that old wound. He took greater pride in his partner. How many people could be so creative and erotic even when battling nightmarish memories? Harry blushed at the picture they must have made. Voldemort had looked so obscene with his mouth stuffed full of Harry’s cock. He had once thought that he was getting the best sex among his peers. Now he was coming to believe that he was just getting the best sex. God, Voldemort knew how to use their bodies well.

When the glass was set down, Harry tugged the man to him.

“Do you see why I got a free trip to America?” Voldemort asked him hoarsely, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Harry’s lips. Harry was not going to have any of that, so he pulled him in for a deep, long kiss, licking away the taste of himself from the corners of Voldemort’s mouth. Voldemort’s hands gripped him fiercely before relaxing and pulling away.

“My brain is scrambled. Ask me tomorrow,” Harry mumbled. A laugh was the response. Harry stretched his hand out and fumbled for his wand. There, he put the candle out. How had this become his responsibility? Harry decided to think about that later. 

Voldemort’s hands had moved to trace the patterns on Harry’s chest again, before they stilled and quickly retreated. 

“I don’t mind,” Harry told him, dragging the hands back. He thought about his own emotions on the subject. They did look ugly against his pale skin, making him look like a Japanese mythical monster. He liked the fact that Voldemort was fascinated by them. He felt…strangely, as if he belonged. 

“Are you going to tell me what the chant was about?” Harry asked as he nodded off to sleep

The answer was one that Harry had expected. It was a cloak of blackness covering his mind. 

——


	19. I will bind you with holly and yew

Morning found Voldemort awake. Harry raised his eyebrows. Voldemort liked to wake up well after nine. Then he noticed what the man’s gaze was fixed on. The sprawling web of black on Harry’s torso had all his attention.

“Is this going to be like the catsuit?” Harry asked, pulling the man for a kiss.

“I confess it is likely to be worse,” Voldemort replied with a weak smile. “Before this, I have not had anything so irrevocably mine.”

Harry’s grin slipped as he took in the words. Voldemort was watching him carefully. Harry took a deep breath. He had known, on some level, that the chant was binding and forever, and that it was not about obedience,though he was sure that there was an element of obedience in the magic.

“I see you realize.”

Had he belonged to Voldemort after the man had killed his parents? Petunia had not wanted him. Dumbledore had loved him from a distance, mentoring and protecting. Ron and Hermione loved him too, but they were increasingly swept up in their own world of cares. Voldemort had cursed him, and had placed soul and magic in Harry. This was a sick world, Harry decided. Why else would he be here? He was not even upset. He felt an unbearable lightness of being, in where he was, in what owned him.

“I am fine,” he told Voldemort sincerely. “You take good care of whatever you have.”

“I don’t think so. Why did you agree?” 

Because Harry had seen memories, memories where Riddle had been a cautious and generous lover. He had put together pieces of the dysfunctional relationship with Abraxas and how Riddle had let his lover get away with a great deal. He had been protected and made love to and taught to love here in Voldemort’s embrace.

“You treat your lovers well,” Harry said quietly.

“I want to fuck you standing up, facing a mirror. I want to watch you contort when I am deep inside you. I want to watch you pinching your nipples until they are red and plump like a Soho whore’s. I want to see you watching yourself, helpless in the face of your need to be fucked however I am willing to fuck you.” 

It had all the makings of a good morning, Harry decided. 

—-

“He has been cutting himself,” Flitwick said sadly.

“I know,” Harry replied, pushing his toast around the plate. “I guess it is his way of dealing with everything.”

“He is not a teenager!” Flitwick exclaimed. 

Harry suspected that Snape had never really aged past nineteen. He still lingered there, grieving for Lily, resenting James, and cutting himself whenever it all became too much. In another world, Harry suspected the man might go to metal concerts and shriek his rage out with the rest of Britain’s angry and the misunderstood. And that would have been healthier in the long run, seriously.

Then the man himself came to stand before them. Harry looked up. 

“You shall be taught how to Apparate today,” Snape declared. He looked angry about it. 

“Dumbledore is not here. You don’t have to teach me anything,” Harry pointed out. He regretted it immediately when he saw the loss on Snape’s features.

“Don’t speak his name!” Snape hissed.

Oh, that is how they were going to do it then. Avoid naming anyone Snape had strong emotions for. Flitwick squeezed Harry’s shoulder and left them to it. Harry was of half a mind to tell Snape to sod off, but he decided to go along. He did not have high hopes of learning Apparation from Snape. Potions and Occlumency stood as testimonials to that. Still, he needed to tell the man to not go do something stupid like approach Grindelwald. The rage that was in Snape’s eyes whenever they lingered on the black curls of Voldemort’s mark evident on Harry’s neck had been worrying him. 

“Right. All at your disposal, Professor.”

Snape stared at him suspiciously. Then he swirled and stormed away in a dramatic cloud of black. Harry steeled himself for the horrors to follow. Butterbeer was not strong enough for this. Maybe later tonight, he could go see what was in Voldemort’s kitchen.

Snape had led them to the outskirts of the school, just past the wards. He was now setting up wards of his own. Harry would have once taken this as a sign that Snape was about to stun him and carry him off to Voldemort for ritual disembowelment or something.

“You must first clear your mind.”

Harry suppressed a sigh. He did his best to clear his mind, more for Snape’s sake than his own. 

“Apparation requires calm and focus. This is why idiots splinch themselves all across the country. I fully expect that you will be among their number.”

“I don’t think the average wizard can really clear his mind,” Harry said tiredly. “People still manage to apparate. It is just about practice.”

“Entitled and lazy, just like your father!” 

“I am clearing my mind!” Harry shouted, trying to cut off that since it was a useless cycle that would only tire them both out. 

“No, you aren’t!” Snape seethed, and cast Legilimency. Harry’s luck failed and the first thing that rose to the surface was his conversation with Flitwick about Snape’s cutting. Harry quickly pushed Snape out of his mind and opened his eyes, to see Snape’s eyes wide in anger, betrayal and fear. 

“Professional conduct and discretion just flees when in the presence of Harry Potter,” he spat.

“Don’t blame Flitwick. I already knew,” Harry said wearily, leaning against the bole of an old tree. 

Snape looked close to cursing him. Harry shook his head and said quietly, “I wish you would stop. I am worried.”

“Worried?” Snape spluttered. “Of all the inanity you have spouted!”

“If you can bloody forget for ten minutes that I remind you of my father, you would see it too! You have been in my mind.”

“Trying to bind Dumbledore’s spy to your service? Worried that you will be helpless before the Dark Lord without someone doing your dirty work?”

“I am more worried about Grindelwald!” Harry shouted. Snape’s skill at living in a warped reality was nothing short of amazing, he decided. He could use some of whatever Snape had been on for the last twenty years. It had to be good stuff. Had to be much better than Petunia’s valium tablets. 

Snape looked speechless for a second before he replied, “Why would I betray you to Grindelwald? I hate you but I hate Grindelwald more!” 

“I am worried that you will do something stupid like betraying your Dark Lord to Grindelwald.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. Harry tried explaining, “He is helping us. We have a contract. We should all stay put until Grindelwald is over.”

“The Dark Lord does not help, you foolish boy!” 

“Dumbledore was convinced.”

“He is dead!” Snape shouted, and a flock of birds took flight hastily from the trees above them. 

Somewhere in the vicinity, Fang barked. Harry wondered if he should suggest moving their shouting match to the dungeons. Hagrid would be worried and he did not want to worry Hagrid, particularly when Hagrid had not been seen sober after Dumbledore’s death.

“I promise to follow your instructions when you are trying to teach me,” Harry bartered. “In return, you stop cutting.”

Snape looked thrown off. He rallied quickly, saying, “More promises? I would have thought promising the Dark Lord your life was enough for a lifetime.”

“That has nothing to do with this,” Harry pointed out. He fought the urge to bang his head against the tree behind him. How had Dumbledore handled this man? How had Lily handled him? How did Voldemort handle him? Harry commanded neither guilt-tripping, nor obsession, nor fear. He was only a boy born to a woman Snape was still obsessing over and a man Snape refused to stop hating even in death.

“It has everything to do with this!” Snape yelled. “I swore an oath to the Headmaster to protect you. The moment he is dead, you go and pawn your life to the Dark Lord!”

“I am nineteen!” Harry shouted back, patience evaporating completely. “I am nineteen and Dumbledore had no objection in taking me to watch the duel. He had no objection to leave me with the Dursleys long before that. I am old enough, Snape!”

“That was for the greater good.”

“So is this,” Harry snapped. “Voldemort’s mark is an easier cross to bear for me than it is for you.”

Snape looked lost. He whispered, “You will never be rid of it.” 

Harry felt a pang of regret. He approached the man and gently peeled back the long sleeve of his robe. There were cuts all over the Dark Mark, mutilating pale skin. Snape shook his sleeve over the skin.

“I will heal them before I go to Him. He will be furious if he hears I have been cutting again. He calls it cowardice,” Snape said in a rush. Then despair crossed his features and he said, “Only, now you know, and you can’t shield your mind from Goyle. The Dark Lord will be furious.”

“He stays out of my mind,” Harry reassured him softly, unnerved by the fear that was rampantly plastered over the pallid features. “I think he finds my teenage thoughts too weird.”

“I do, certainly,” Snape rallied, though it was a weak attempt. 

“You should stop,” Harry said gently, as gently as he was capable of. “He had been dead the last time you went down this route, if I guess correctly. He will notice it this time. Stay in his good graces. We need to get Grindelwald out. We need to bring Dumbledore back to Hogwarts. I can’t do any of this alone.”

“You shouldn’t have to do any of this at all,” Snape muttered. “He raised you to be a martyr.”

Harry knew that. He thought he had come to terms with it, in his own way. On some days, it felt like a burden loathsome. On other days, it was a fact of life he spent a great deal of time avoiding. Avoidance. As long as he did not dwell on what Dumbledore had raised him to be, he was all right. He would have been the last horcrux, and his death would have left Voldemort mortal. Harry gulped. He preferred not to speculate on what Dumbledore’s idea was regarding that.

——

“Are you all right?” 

Ron and Hermione looked so worried. Harry shrugged and sat across them on the fraying carpet in the Gryffindor common room. The fire was bright and cast large shadows in the room, empty but for the three of them. Hogwarts had never been so quiet. 

“I am fine. Snape’s lesson went about as well as any of his lessons. I am in one piece. So that is good, I guess.”

Hermione blinked and Ron frowned. 

“What?”

“Are you in denial like always?” Ron asked.

It was Harry’s turn to frown.

“The mark!” Hermione said, gesticulating wildly. 

Oh, the mark. Harry had forgotten about that thing. Well, it was weird how Voldemort obsessed over it, but it was a harmless fascination compared to the other things Voldemort obsessed over, and Harry did not mind too much. Hermione and Ron looked concerned and frightened, so he decided to get it over with.

“Do you want to see it?”

Hermione nodded and Ron made an unpleasant face. Harry rolled his eyes and took his shirt off. Hermione gasped and Ron croaked. 

“How deep does it go?” Hermione asked, coming closer and peering at the rune disappearing down his waistband. Harry was glad for his belt. Dudley’s jeans might have helped her scientific curiosity along. Ron tugged her back. 

“It stops at the pelvic bone,” Harry said. 

“May I?” she asked, reaching her hand out. Ron groaned. Harry smiled and nodded. Like a child offered candy, she bounced forward and started tracing the pattern curiously with her fingers. 

“No ridges. How strange!” she exclaimed. “The skin just looks fine. As if this was painted on. Not like a tattoo at all!” 

“Except it is forever paint,” Ron pointed out, dimming her enthusiasm considerably as she bit her lip and nodded sadly. She stepped back and Harry put his shirt back on.

“It looks really….familiar,” she murmured. 

“It looks like Percy became an artist,” Ron suggested.

Harry grinned. It was a weird geometric pattern, like some Byzantine drawing. Maybe it was a chant from that time. 

Hermione was lost in her own thoughts. 

“‘Mione?” Ron nudged her. 

She turned to face Harry and commanded, “Take your shirt off.”

“What?” Ron asked, confused.

Harry shared the confusion but decided it best to obey her. She cast a spell that painted him green. He supposed that it matched his eyes well. Then she frowned and cast a spell to make the green fill in the mark. 

“Oh!” Ron exclaimed. “Holly leaves.”

Harry did not speak, taken aback by what she had discovered. Voldemort had been so reluctant to discuss the chant.

“What do you think that means?” Ron asked. Hermione shook her head.

—-

Afterwards, in the privacy of Voldemort’s bathroom, Harry cast the same spell again. He saw what they had not noticed. He saw the slender, black leaves of yew around the green holly. They were entwined about each other, inside and outside. So clever, Harry thought. Those who looked would only see one of the patterns, unless they knew what to look for. The only man living who would remember was Ollivander. 

“However did you find out?” Voldemort demanded, and Harry wondered how long the man had been standing at the door watching him. 

“Hermione spotted the holly,” Harry replied honestly. “She is very sharp. I came back and looked for the yew.” 

Voldemort did not reply. Harry remembered what the man had admitted, about being overwhelmed at the thought of possessing something so irrevocably for the first time in his life. The mark told a different story. It told a story of possession reciprocated. He wondered, not for the first time, why Abraxas had not wanted this. Abraxas could have had Riddle completely; he had never wanted that. Did Harry want it? He knew it gave him a great sense of belonging when Voldemort was possessive. He had never expected Voldemort to like a possessive lover, not from the memories of his youth, or the stories of his Muggle liaisons. 

“It should protect you, to an extent,” Voldemort said finally, entering the bathroom, and stepping into the bath. “Don’t rely on it. It is crude, untested magic. I have meetings into the late night.” He took off his robe and discarded it on the floor. Harry noticed that he looked tired. Suddenly overcome by affection, he took his clothes off and entered the bath. 

“I can’t-” Voldemort began regretfully.

“I am going to wash you. Turn the shower on.”

Voldemort was unexpectedly awkward and clumsy. Harry wondered why. He soaped the man thoroughly and gently, and tried his best not to smile at the startled look on Voldemort’s face.

“This is rather strange,” Voldemort muttered. 

“Just close your eyes, relax, and let me move you.”

“This is rather strange,” Voldemort repeated, and went limp letting Harry do as he pleased. 

“I have wanted to try this for a while,” Harry confessed. “You are usually dominant. I like it when I can be as slow as I want, and kiss you and touch you and hold you to my heart’s content.”

“If you want to fuck me, you only have to ask,” Voldemort pointed out, sounding bewildered. 

“It isn’t about fucking. It is about my teenage need to have romantic non-fucking moments.”

“You like what you like,” Voldemort replied, relaxing into Harry’s hands completely. “I am willing to try anything once. This, I think I can readily agree to whenever you want. It has calmed me down considerably.” 

Right, Harry had forgotten how sensible Voldemort tended to be about this sort of thing. 

“You haven’t tried this before?” he asked, genuinely surprised. 

“Fucking in the bath? Yes. Been bathed by a lover? No.”

“Step out. I will towel you down.”

“This is rather strange,” Voldemort said for the third time. “I don’t mind. It has calmed me down enough not to curse them all at the meetings.”

“Fudge?”

“Severus, mostly. Thinks I don’t know that he has been cutting again.”

“He is a grown man. I think it helps him deal with things. He is careful by nature.”

“He is obsessive by nature,” Voldemort muttered. “Never mind that. I will deal with him. I don’t want to discuss this and waste all the effort you have put into mellowing me.”

“One more thing,” Harry said, taking Voldemort’s hand and placing it on centre of the mark. “This might be untested magic, but I don’t think it is crude magic. I don’t think you are capable of crude magic.”

When Voldemort kissed him, slowly and perfectly, Harry knew that he could have never had this with Ginny. She might have loved him. Anyone else might have loved him. Maybe that was not what Harry needed. Maybe Harry needed this madness and obsession. He realized that he was possessive too, and his fingers left bruises on Voldemort’s hips. 

“I should go. Amelia Bones is shriller in a meeting than she is in bed, and that had been shrill enough for me.”

“You have slept with Madam Bones?” Harry asked, scandalized.

“Fucked in the Kitchens. Once.”

“Dumbledore told me your promiscuity was a sign of deeper issues.”

“Sometimes, a teenager getting some is all about a teenager getting some. Still, if he spent hours toiling over arcane theories revolving around the magic powers of my semen, all the more joy.” 

Harry laughed and let the man go. He suspected Voldemort was a little too mellow than he had anticipated. 

“Are you coming for the meeting at eleven?” Voldemort asked distractedly, throwing his robes on and lacing them up deftly. 

“Fudge wants me to,” Harry said. “I will be there.”

“I will see you then, if I have not gone berserk during the three meetings I have before that.”


	20. This drab canvas we call life

When Harry arrived at the meeting, he was late. His eyebrows flew up when he saw that Voldemort was not there. There was Lucius Malfoy huddled in conversation with Fudge and Rufus. Harry wondered what that was about.

“He has been in an odd mood,” Kingsley whispered, passing him the agenda. It was in Percy’s familiar hand. 

“What do you mean?” 

“He took Severus aside for a word,” Kingsley muttered. “I hope the poor man is still alive. He was shaking.” 

God! Harry realized what that could be about. He had risen to his feet before he thought of it. Kingsley looked at him in concern. 

“I will go get some coffee,” he mumbled. “Not been sleeping well.”

Kingsley clucked in sympathy. Harry hated the lie, but he quickly took advantage and got out of the room. He rushed towards the Ministry office that Voldemort had once commandeered when Dumbledore had requested a word with him. It was closed. Harry knocked briskly and noticed that his palms were sweaty. 

“Come in, Harry,” Voldemort called out. “I have an use for you.”

Harry hoped that he would not have to be a bystander to yet another tragedy in Snape’s life. Snape would sooner die, he was sure. He did not know what to do, but he knew he had to be there to intervene, to say something, in case Snape was stubborn and lying about the damned cutting, or about Grindelwald, or about Harry. 

Snape was on his knees and Harry could see the tear-tracks down his face. Voldemort was standing across him, wand outstretched. 

Snape did not look at him. Harry thought that was a small mercy. 

“Get up,” Voldemort ordered. “Harry will be the witness.”

Harry was about to ask for an explanation but decided against it seeing the contained anger on Voldemort’s face. It unnerved him to see Snape obey without a fuss, without complaining.

“I know you,” Voldemort said quietly. He drew his wand and a circle of gold appeared around Snape on the floor. “The phoenix. You have the phoenix.”

“Yes, my lord,” Snape whispered and more tears escaped him. Harry fought the urge to intervene, to defend his professor, but he did not know what to make of Voldemort. 

“I am not interested in the bird,” Voldemort snapped. “The lesson is that you cannot hide behind your shields. I have torn them down, every last defence of yours, and you are mine. You will cease the self-mutilation. Gambol around with the bird if that makes you feel any better. No more of this dramatic, self-destructive, obsessiveness. I require your word, with Harry as your witness.”

“My lord-”

“I am waiting. I am not a man used to waiting.”

“Professor, please,” Harry implored, seeing the rage kindle in Voldemort’s eyes. It was not too terrible, was it? It was only to stop the stupidity. He swallowed. Dumbledore too would have wanted it to stop. 

Snape nodded finally and whispered, “I give you my word, my lord.” 

“Good,” Voldemort said. “Return to Hogwarts now. I will send word later on what I want done. Harry, make sure he makes it to the Floo safely. Then join the meeting.”

“Safely?” 

“My Legilimency tends to be rough on those of a sensitive disposition,” Voldemort remarked easily, making for the door. 

When the door closed behind him, Harry rushed to Snape. The man was shaking like a leaf in the wind. Harry tugged him down to the nearest chair and shoved the man’s head between his knees, as Petunia had once done to him when he had felt sick. He wondered if he should try Hermione’s technique of rubbing the neck of the ill person, but decided against that idea. It was Snape.

Snape’s breathing eased and he lifted his head up to glare at Harry. Harry sighed and offered his handkerchief. Snape stared at the plaid pattern for a moment before extracting a crisp, white handkerchief from his pocket. Harry looked away while Snape put himself to rights. God, how had he ended up here? How was he going to deal with this Snape? The whole Snape thing seemed to be something he should just stop trying to fix. He could not handle the man. Voldemort and Dumbledore had their own ways. Harry did not. He could feel all kinds of emotions not his own too. It was as if there was electricity in the room, electrons of emotions. Something like that. Physics had been a long time ago. He suspected he knew what it meant. Voldemort’s assault had left Snape’s emotions all over the place. He did his best to stay focussed on himself. The last thing he wanted was to go down the privacy argument with Snape again.

“Why aren’t you afraid of him?” Snape whispered. 

Harry was afraid of Voldemort. He had been afraid earlier, when Voldemort had stood there, cruel and implacable. He bit his lip. He was not afraid for himself, he realized. He was valued, because he was a figurehead. He was valued because of the bond. Being the man’s lover helped too. He was afraid for others Voldemort did not find equally useful.

“He has already tried to kill me,” Harry joked. “What else is he going to do?”

Snape looked angry at the joke. Harry supposed he should not have mentioned that episode. His mother had died for him then and his mother was one of the unmentionables in Snape’s presence. Harry’s black humour about the various tragedies in his life was never going to make sense to Snape. It made sense to very few, but it helped Harry cope. He had picked it up from Aunt Petunia who employed the same when speaking of Vernon or their wreck of a marriage. 

“Let me get you to the Floo,” Harry offered. 

“Just go to the meeting,” Snape muttered. He did not look hale, but Harry decided to let him be. Fighting Snape was pointless. 

—-

“Rochester has fallen,” Rufus began. “We are retreating towards Bexley. Spies report that there have been crossings across the Thames near Tilbury.”

“Tunbridge Wells?” Voldemort asked, making notes on his map. 

“The Aurors are holding the line there,” Rufus reported. “Fifty-seven casualties.”

“Lucius?” Voldemort turned to face Malfoy. 

Lucius quickly thumbed through his sheaf of papers and said, “Eight-hundred landed at Worthing. There has been reports of fleet movements in the North. Newcastle. Five-hundred.”

“Where are they sending the cannon-fodder?” Voldemort asked. 

Lucius hesitated. 

“They are fighting to the end, most of them,” Rufus explained. “The Aurors report that they are desperate.”

“Oh, they can’t all be cannon-fodder,” Voldemort remarked. “There must be a more experienced reserve, waiting to siege London.”

“We have a report on suspicious activity in Plymouth,” Remus said then, not looking at Voldemort. He passed his sheaf of parchment to Harry. Harry wondered what he was meant to do with that. 

“Define suspicious activity, Mr. Lupin,” Voldemort demanded. 

Distaste crossed Remus’s face, but he soldiered on, “Propaganda. Training camps.”

“Propaganda against the Ministry?” Fudge asked. 

“Against…” Remus looked at Harry helplessly. 

“Against me?” Voldemort asked. 

“Yes.”

“Round them up. Find the leader. Send him to me. I will convince him that it was a mistake.”

Remus inhaled sharply, no doubt worried about Voldemort’s convincing techniques. Fudge looked uncomfortable. 

“My lord,” Lucius cut in. “Perhaps it might be best to let Mr. Lupin handle it.”

“You are right,” Voldemort said thoughtfully. “Perhaps a softer touch is called for. Mr. Lupin, Miss Carrow shall assist you on this venture.”

Remus looked ready to protest, but Kingsley’s meaningful glance held him quiet. Voldemort stared him down until Remus mumbled in affirmative. 

“Mr. Lupin, I am placing you in charge of Plymouth. Do you understand? If the city falls, I will be displeased.” 

“But-” Harry began. Remus and what army? 

“Take your Order,” Voldemort said carelessly, returning to his sheaf of scrolls. “There will be an attack any day soon. Hold the city.”

“Perhaps it might be best to let a contingent of Aurors accompany them,” Rufus suggested tentatively. 

“I require two-hundred at Scarborough,” Voldemort continued implacably. “Three-hundred at Hull. Brighton is a lost cause. Pull back. Burn the supplies. Madam Bones, you will take the Unspeakables and ward Portsmouth. I don’t care about the city. I care about the harbour.”

“There are four thousand living in the community in Brighton,” Griselda cut in. 

“Can they fight?” Voldemort asked. 

“Mostly families,” Rufus said, consulting his notes.

“That is not relevant then.”

Griselda looked outraged.

“The Minister can give an evacuation address tonight,” Lucius said hastily. “I have it all written out.” He passed a parchment to Fudge, who looked relieved. 

“Mr. Potter, you will accompany Bella Black to Canterbury,” Voldemort said then.

A ruckus burst forth. Kingsley was saying something in his deep, concerned voice. Remus was on his feet shouting. Amelia was doing the same, but in a shriller voice. Harry was staring at Fudge, who looked as bewildered as he was. More and more, he was beginning to identify with the Minister who was as lost as he was during these meetings.

“Quiet!” Griselda called the room to order. Harry placed his hand on Remus’s shoulder. 

“Burn the supplies,” Voldemort continued. “Sabotage the ley lines. Grindelwald is drawing on an ancient magic. The ley lines are the key to London. We cannot defend the city if the ground underneath is his.”

“Why Harry?” Rufus asked. “He is not experienced. Perhaps Kingsley Shacklebolt might be a better candidate.”

“His inexperience is not an impediment,” Voldemort said quietly, staring at the scar on Harry’s forehead. 

“I will go,” Harry said quickly, before another round of arguments erupted. Bellatrix and Canterbury seemed like a combination from hell, but he was hardly in a position to disagree. He had sworn obedience. Remus risking Voldemort’s wrath was not worth this. The mad bitch had survived Azkaban. Harry had survived both Voldemort and the Dursleys. Surely Canterbury could not be worse? Except, Grindelwald was scarier than all of that. Harry remembered the crater where Dumbledore had been standing.

“Severus Snape will hold Scotland. He will answer to me if he fails,” Voldemort continued. “I will ward Edinburgh, Aberdeen, Inverness and Dundee. Lucius, what news from Belfast?”

“They have not had any troop sightings,” Lucius reported. “There is activity in Cork.”

“We don’t have a pact with Ireland,” Fudge pointed out uncomfortably. “Politically, we cannot help them if they don’t agree to be helped.”

“We are helping ourselves,” Voldemort said calmly. “Ireland in Grindelwald’s hands will leave three fronts open.” 

“The Irish ambassador will not be happy.”

“He is welcome to seek an audience with me,” Voldemort said wryly. 

Fudge shut up.

Harry noticed that Voldemort was much more comfortable than Dumbledore was in ordering people around. That was unsurprising. Voldemort was also more lucid. At least, Harry got the gist of what he was trying to do. He had never been able to make sense of Dumbledore’s plans, due to the man’s inclination to obfuscate everything. 

When the meeting was done, Remus dragged Harry out. Lucius followed hastily. 

“I have to take you to Bella,” he explained. 

“I am not letting him go alone to that…that woman!” Remus exclaimed.

“Where is she?” Harry asked, trying to direct the conversation to practical matters.

“At her house,” Lucius replied. Harry noticed that close to, Lucius had dark circles around his eyes. Vain as Malfoy was, Harry found it surprising. “It is best if you approach her alone, Mr. Potter. She is a temperamental woman at times and seeing Mr. Lupin may not help the cause.”

“Harry is your son’s age!” Remus hissed. “Little Draco is playing with his fancy broom-stick in his father’s well-warded manor.”

Lucius said tiredly, “My son is working day and night researching ley lines. Mr. Potter, if Miss Granger wishes to help, please send her along. It could go faster with two heads.” 

“I will ask Ron and Hermione,” Harry said. 

“Everyone above eighteen is being drafted,” Lucius said uncomfortably. “Mr. Weasley will likely receive his assignment soon.”

—-

Bellatrix’s sitting room was a reflection of her personality. Morbid paintings hung askew on the walls. He had the itch to straighten them, because it went against his sense of orderliness drilled in by Petunia. It was like a gothic club Harry had once seen on television. He wondered if she would like KISS songs. No, more the Black Sabbath sort, he decided. Biting the head off a bat seemed right up her alley.

He took a deep breath and pushed aside all thoughts of Sirius. Up on the wall, in the far corner, was a Black family portrait. He recognized Orion and Walburga instantly, but he did not look at the children. 

“Hello,” he said awkwardly when Bellatrix entered the room. 

She sat across him and crossed her legs. Harry tried to stop staring at the sharp heel and the dainty ankle. She was in her usual garb of black and lace. The red lips stood out in stark contrast. The cleavage reminded him of the woman who had kidnapped him. He stamped out his fear with determination. Bellatrix was mad. She liked torture much more than rape. He hoped. He had not seen Neville in forever. How was he doing? Harry swallowed. He remembered the trial and how Bellatrix had crowed about the Longbottoms.

“Canterbury,” she said briskly. “I am an experienced arsonist. You can be the saboteur.” 

Harry blinked. That was remarkably practical of her. He had expected to have to get through her jeering about his parents and Sirius. 

“I don’t know anything about sabotage.”

“Not my problem,” she said. “Ask someone to teach you. Filius Flitwick knows.”

Flitwick. All right. Harry could do that. He nodded. 

“A week from now. On the Saturday. It is a full moon. We can use a few of Greyback’s wolves as distraction. Can you fight?”

Harry stared at her, remembering how she had danced her out way of Harry’s spells, remembering her taunts, remembering Sirius falling. Bitterly, he said, “You said I can’t.” 

She pouted and leaned forward, giving him a great view of her corseted breasts. He looked away.

“The Expelliarmus won’t get you anywhere, boy. A week isn’t enough to get you to throw a Killing Curse. Too much of a conscience, sadly!” She looked truly sad. “Get Snape to teach you some of his curses. He knows some nifty ones that won’t make you feel too bad.”

-—

Harry opened his mouth to ask Voldemort what this recipe for disaster was all about, but the man took one look at him and said sharply, “Off with your clothes.”

Harry stared. Voldemort leaned against his desk and looked at him expectantly. It could wait until after sex, Harry decided. He took off his clothes. 

“Good boy,” Voldemort complimented him. He beckoned Harry over. Harry approached him. Voldemort’s eyes lingered for a long moment on the mark before he said, “Turn. Bend over and grab your ankles.”

Harry stared at him. Whenever he thought they had done everything erotic possible, Voldemort surprised him with something new. He complied quickly. 

“You are a sight,” Voldemort whispered, tracing a long finger down the ridge of Harry’s spine. 

Harry’s mind was soon washed away as Voldemort worked him open with a finger and then two. His legs had begun to ache, but he was too pleasured to complain. 

“On your fours,” Voldemort ordered. Harry was glad for the balance. His thighs had been hurting. 

“You will be happy to know that I replenished my groceries,” Voldemort murmured. He came around and sat down on the floor, facing Harry. He had a familiar stump in his hand and a knife.

“Ginger?” Harry whispered, incredulous. Surely not!

“Back in the horse-racing days, they used to have horses stuffed with ginger if they were flagging in the race,” Voldemort explained. “Did I tell ever you about the jockey I fucked in the stables at Ascot?” 

“No,” Harry mumbled, overwhelmed by the aroma of the ginger root that Voldemort was carefully shaping into a flared form. 

“There was ginger involved,” Voldemort assured him, bending to kiss Harry’s cheek quickly. “He won that race.” 

Harry had not expected this. Voldemort was careful, gently sliding the root in. The size did not whelm Harry, but the sensation was beginning to. Then Voldemort upped the game, as he always did. He conjured a hour-glass and fiddled with it. 

“It will keep time in five minute installments,” he told Harry. “Clench around the plug fifteen times, evenly spaced, when the sand is in the bottom half. Then turn it over. We will speak in half an hour, if that suits you. Call me if you need.”

Harry was going to go fucking insane. Voldemort was seated at his desk, working assiduously through a sheaf of papers. Every now and then, he rose to head over to the large map of Britain he had fixed to his wall, and made notes on it. Harry burned and his cock was leaking over the carpet. He ploughed through as best as he could, turning the time-piece over and over again, clenching and counting to keep track. By the time he was at twenty minutes, he was sweating and the aroma of the ginger was getting to his head. Voldemort approached him and conjured a mirror ever so helpfully, so that Harry could watch himself. A long drawn-out moan escaped Harry and he found that he was rocking back and forth in such a shameless display that made Voldemort put down his papers and stare at him. The sand had trickled down. Harry reached over to upend it, but Voldemort had walked over again and pulled the root out. Harry rocked back into Voldemort, wild and lost. 

“Stay still,” Voldemort murmured, working fingers coated in some soothing salve. “Stay still. Let me.”

“Fuck me!” Harry demanded, driving back to take the fingers down to the knuckles. They were not enough. They were too thin. 

“Of course, of course,” Voldemort promised, giving in. 

It was a magnificent fuck. Harry wholeheartedly approved of the idea. Voldemort’s control was in shreds and it showed in the wild thrusting that unbalanced Harry. He looked up at the mirror to see the exultant, rapt joy on his features. God, he looked debauched, all sweaty and flushed, nude against Voldemort’s dark robes. 

Later, as they lazed about on the carpet, Harry said, “I still want to talk about Bellatrix and Canterbury.”

“Don’t fret,” Voldemort said sleepily, throwing an arm across Harry. “Bella can get you into the cathedral. You are to use the bond and let me possess you.”

Harry reflected that it was not everybody in the world who had a lover whose idea of post-coital reassurance involved possession. Also, it was not everybody in the world who would be reassured by such a declaration. 

“The carpet will bruise you,” Harry reminded him. “Get on the bed.”

“Have you seen me fly?” Voldemort asked, floating himself into the air like a character in a weird science fiction TV show Harry had once seen at Mrs. Figg’s.

“I have seen it now,” Harry replied with a smile. Voldemort suspended himself over Harry. Harry grinned and pulled him down by the neck for a deep kiss. He was overcome by affection. How had Abraxas been so foolish to not take this when it had been freely offered? Harry wondered about that often these days.

“You are impossible,” Harry remarked, when Voldemort pulled back to let them breathe. 

“Severus was once drunk and said that,” Voldemort reminisced. “Sauntered in from a disreputable night, smelling of marijuana and cheap liquor, walked right up to me, leaned in close until I was reeling from the smell of alcohol on his breath, and declared that I was impossible. Then he threw up all over my papers. He was seventeen and had been grieving his mother’s death, so I let it pass.”

“Wow!” Harry exclaimed. “He really goes nuts when he is upset over something. I don’t know what to make of him. Dumbledore dealt with him well. I can’t. You don’t count, because you can fucking threaten him with death or torture.”

“I don’t,” Voldemort murmured. “That doesn’t work with him. He likes his badges - victim, servant, spurned and would-be martyr. I don’t like dealing with him when he is collecting badges. I don’t have the patience and he doesn’t have the resilience. Easily affected and capable of great havoc. Very unlike you, Harry. He is more immature, in so many ways.”

Harry wondered what to make of that. Ron had often said that Snape had never grown up. Harry had not paid attention to that, simply taking it as the general vendetta Ron had against Snape and the Slytherins. Ron was perceptive and understood people better than Harry did, and he had been right about Snape. Then he remembered what his father and Sirius had done. Then he remembered how his mother and Dumbledore had both defended Snape. He felt uncomfortable. Snape was too…sensitive. Voldemort was right. He did not have the resilience and he was capable of great destruction. Harry wanted to help the man, for his mother’s sake, for Dumbledore’s sake, but he did not think there was anything he could do. He thought of Snape kneeling and crying, so broken at Voldemort’s feet.

“You broke his shields. It is not going to help.”

“It is a risky gambit,” Voldemort said thoughtfully. “I want him shattered, so that he can finally put himself back together. Abraxas was protective of him, shielding him from me in the beginning. Then there was Dumbledore, who benefited from the situation. Severus needs his shields broken so that he can finally deal with the world as it is. He lives in a nest of delusion, comfortable in his emotions of unworthiness, insecurity and feeling ill-used by the world.” 

“That is very…charitable of you.”

“I need him to hold Scotland,” Voldemort pointed out. “I cannot have him moping about like a teenaged drama queen when Grindelwald comes knocking.”

Voldemort was not an ideal counsellor. Harry did not know what to do about it, so he decided to just keep an eye on Snape. If things looked close to dire, he would tell Flitwick. Still, Harry wondered, if it worked, Snape might move on from obsessing over his mother and that could only be a good thing. It made Harry uncomfortable to think about that obsession. He knew he did not have a leg to stand on when it came to the topic, but Snape did not need to know that story. 

“Come to bed,” Voldemort demanded. “I am sleepy, my focus is slipping, and I will fall on you if we continue here.”

“Bellatrix’s house is weird. So weird,” Harry commented once they were under Voldemort’s mountain of blankets on the bed.

“I have not seen it,” Voldemort replied. “I cannot say I am surprised. She likely inherited the Black taste in decor from her parents. They had live bats dangling from the rafters when I visited them once. Bella and her cousin, your godfather, were shooting the bats down with a variety of curses. They were all of four years.”

Suddenly, Sirius’s taunting of Snape seemed much more benevolent. It could have been worse. Harry shuddered. His father and Lupin must have been good influences.

“Why do you call her Bella Black?” Harry asked. Everybody called her Lestrange, didn’t they? 

“Habit. She was a Black when I met her first.” Voldemort sighed. “I don’t understand why women are required to change their names after marriage. If I have known her all her life as a Black, why should I start calling her something else just because she exchanged a ring with a man?” 

Harry felt that it was the first thing about Voldemort’s political or social beliefs that he could agree on, without reservation. He had felt uncomfortable hearing about Lily Potter. She had been Lily Evans. Hermione would become Hermione Weasley and Harry had only known her as Hermione Granger. 

“Still, it is a bigger problem,” Harry said thoughtfully. “The last names come from their fathers.”

“When I was in America, I met a few people who were named after both their parents,” Voldemort told him. “I am in favour of letting children pick their unique identifiers at ten years of age or thereabouts.” 

“Unique identifiers?” Harry asked, laughing. “You sound like the computer science textbook I had in Muggle school. Where did you pick up such jargon from? Let me guess, you fucked a Computer Scientist.” 

“Youngling. In those days, they were just engineers or mathematicians,” Voldemort corrected him. “There weren’t any computer science programmes in the universities yet. He was a mathematician at the Imperial College in London. Such an absent-minded fellow that you would have immediately known he was a mathematician. Prepared me for a fucking with marmalade. Had the courtesy to lick it away, thankfully. Taught me about Turing machines and the lambda calculus.” 

“You fuck the most interesting people,” Harry remarked, scrunching his nose at the thought of marmalade as lubricant. “How do you go about finding them?”

“They come to me in catsuits, Harry.” 

“Oh, give it a rest!” Harry said, laughing. “Back to Bellatrix Lestrange. What is with her corsets?” Harry asked, squirming as he remembered the magnificently obscene cleavage. 

“Why are you asking me?” Voldemort complained. “It is hardly as if I sit down and discuss her wardrobe choices over high-tea. My only experience with corsets was back in the sixties when Abraxas got it into his head that it would improve his posture. He was high on cocaine, so I think that might have had something to do with it. He was a connoisseur of finely crafted whalebone then. That is when he smuggled in the white peacocks too. By the time he came down from the high, the environmentalists had got their hands on the mess and declared that the grounds would be a sanctuary for the endangered bird. He could not get rid of the peacocks after that.”

Harry giggled. Then he remembered that Griselda had said something about Abraxas and drugs. Drugs, the mention of them, made him queasy after his summer experience. 

“Muggle drugs?”

“It was partly my fault,” Voldemort explained. “I had been making and selling Pervitin during the war. It was popular with the bobbies, for it kept them wakeful. It is called methamphetamine now, I think. Back then, it was called Germany’s greatest advantage, for it was widely distributed among their ranks. It had been difficult to procure it in London and I made a tidy sum that summer. Abraxas tried it once and liked it enough to explore other drugs. He would cajole me into accompanying him to Muggle London. There were drug-dens in Camden then, and I had my reputation as a supplier of Pervitin that the bouncers let us in. When we stumbled out, high and merry, he would often push me back against the dirty, brick walls and fall to his knees, and snort lines off my cock. We often wound up in his London flat in the early hours of dawn, out of our heads and completely besotted with each other. He ended up addicted to cocaine. He looked a waif. Was scrawnier than I am now. He quit, one summer morning, and managed his withdrawal all by himself in his lakeside chalet in Switzerland.”

“He must have been strong-minded,” Harry remarked, despite himself. 

“He was,” Voldemort replied. “Nothing like his son or grandson. Looking at Draco, I think generations of Malfoy and Black guile bypassed him completely. Must be Eloise. She was a dim-witted flower.”

Harry laughed. Draco was wittier than Eloise when he was not throwing his tantrums, Harry was sure, but he had not seen Malfoy in ages. 

Riddle had made meth and sold it? Harry wondered what the policemen buying it had thought of Riddle. Had the boy used Polyjuice to disguise his age? Perhaps nobody had cared, because of the war. Harry squirmed, trying to imagine Abraxas and Riddle in a Muggle drug den, and he failed at imagining the drug-den because all he could think of was plumes of smoke that he associated with hookahs. Snort a line? Did it mean inhaling? He would have to look that up. He did not want to ask Voldemort right then, feeling that the man might think him too naive. 

“Did the drugs have an effect on your relationship?” Harry asked curiously. 

“He was careful,” Voldemort replied. “I was rarely affected. There was an occasion or two when it spilled over into his interactions with others. One of them was significant to make him decide that it was enough. There was an effect; the drugs introduced him to Muggle London. That was unlooked for good fortune. I was fond of the theatre and the cinema. On the day after one of these nights, I coaxed him to the cinema for an Alfred Hitchcock film. He took to it. We frequently visited London together, even after he quit cocaine, to the cinema and the theatre, and then he introduced me to music.”

“Music?” Harry asked, curious.

“He was an excellent violinist and a decent pianist. There was an old piano in the Slytherin common room. He taught me to play on that. After a while, we often played duets together, playing music that he had composed himself.”

Wow. Harry’s activities with Voldemort consisted of sex and food that he had expected Voldemort’s past relationship to be similar. He had also thought that it was all partners did: they were in love, for some reason, and had sex and ate together, and had children and raised them together. Ron and Hermione had nothing in common except Harry. Mr. Weasley’s tinkering was not something Mrs. Weasley encouraged or participated in. He racked his brains to think of any other couple he knew, who did something more than that, and could not think of any.

“What else did you do together?” Harry asked, wanting to know more. 

Voldemort hesitated before saying, “We grew up together, Harry. We were friends and confidantes before we were lovers. We had a great many shared interests due to that. I was fond of travelling and he joined me frequently. He was fond of riding and taught me to ride. In the course of time, I came to enjoy it immensely.” 

Oh. Harry wondered if Voldemort missed the companionship badly. Harry had not thought that there was something missing, mainly because he had not expected that level of shared interests or pleasures from a relationship. Ginny and Cho had loved Quidditch, just as he did, but that was about the extent of shared interests in relationships that he had encountered. Even then, neither Cho nor Ginny had played Quidditch with him outside team practice sessions or matches. 

He thought about what he wanted, setting aside his expectations based on other relationships. He wanted to travel. He had always wanted to travel, to go to Brazil where that snake had wanted to go, to go to Europe as Hermione often had, to go to Egypt and see the places Bill had spoken of, to go to Romania and see Charlie’s dragons, to go to Canada and see the bears. 

“I want to travel,” he said quietly. “I want to see the world.”

“When the war ends, if you wish, we can travel together,” Voldemort replied, brushing a palm over Harry’s. “It would be a pleasure.”

“Yes, please!” Harry exclaimed.

“Some places are best enjoyed alone. You should do that on your own. There are a great many lands that I can guide you through, to the well-known and the little-known gems they contain.”

Harry nodded. He could imagine it in his mind’s eye already, of being shown the giant bears and the great pyramids, of being shown the splendours of the East and the magnificence of America. 

“Now it is my turn. What wild stories have you to tell me?” Voldemort asked, sounding genuinely curious. “You have the advantage over me here. Dumbledore offered you everything in a Pensieve.”

“I can tell you about the Polyjuice project,” Harry said happily. 

This was rather romantic, he decided. Sharing stories. Harry’s stories mostly involved running away from Voldemort’s bids on his life, but he could still talk about Fred and George and the Canary Creams. Tame stuff compared to what Voldemort had done, but it counted!

Voldemort turned out to be worse than Dumbledore. So many questions. They stayed up until dawn as Harry regaled him with tales of mischief. 

He had just finished talking of the snake at the zoo when Voldemort remarked, “So it came in handy, after all.”

“I suppose so,” Harry said uncomfortably. 

Parseltongue was a difficult subject for him. It had ostracised him. Many of his friends were not still comfortable with the knowledge that Harry could speak to snakes. Harry did not go out of his way to do that, and avoided snakes whenever he could. The boy who had been delighted to talk to the snake at the zoo did not exist anymore. 

“When I heard of this first, I was furious,” Voldemort said quietly. “It had been a special gift, unique. Then I decided that languages are only useful if they can be used to communicate with someone else. I don’t know if you converse with snakes often, but they have little to say. They are also repetitive and are always thinking of sleeping. It makes me sleepy when I speak with a snake.”

“I can’t talk if I don’t see a snake,” Harry explained quickly, before Voldemort could get it into his head to try conversing in that tongue. “I don’t know why. Dumbledore said it was because it was not in my blood. It was only magic shared.” 

“I cannot say that I understand,” Voldemort replied. “I have always spoken. My vocabulary improved drastically when I had only snakes for company, before Wormtail found me. It is rather muddled in my head, because I possessed snakes and I spoke the tongue. Led to some interesting episodes of delusion, conflicted between the snake’s thoughts and mine.”

“You do sleep a lot,” Harry teased him. He thought about what Voldemort had said. It seemed scary to him, but Voldemort had not sounded as if it had been terrifying. Voldemort must really be comfortable with snakes.

“I would agree,” Voldemort said good-humouredly. “I cannot, since I have always slept for nine to ten hours when possible. Sloth was my original sin.”

Harry laughed at that and turned over to kiss the man. Every now and then, Voldemort could infuse light-heartedness into serious conversations with an effortlessness that Harry envied.

One of the greatest difficulties Harry had in relating to others was the seriousness with which they took everything about themselves, and the seriousness with which they took everything about Harry. Perhaps he had become used to taking himself not too seriously at the Dursleys’. He had changed at Hogwarts, and the whole of his teenage years had been riddled by what he privately called the Snape phenomenon - feeling lost and angry, feeling upset and confused, feeling completely misunderstood, feeling that nobody took him seriously, unable to tease his friends over the slightest because of how serious they were about it all. 

Dumbledore’s mentoring after Harry’s Sixth Year had helped greatly. Fucking Voldemort regularly, of all things, had cured Harry’s self-image issue. It was okay, he had decided, to laugh at yourself, without coming across as stupid. It was okay to tease others too, he had found out. At least, it was okay to tease Voldemort, who rarely minded. 

“Tell me about your aunt?”

“Aunt Petunia?” Harry asked, scrunching his nose before he realized he was doing the exact same thing she did when speaking of someone she disliked. 

“She raised you, didn’t she?” 

“I guess you could say that,” Harry muttered. “I don’t what to tell you. I didn’t know her very well.”

Sometimes, on rainy nights, he remembered her coming and letting him out of the cupboard, because he was afraid of thunder. He had only cried out once and Vernon had given him such a beating that he had bit down on his lips to hold in his shrieks of fear after that. Petunia had come by though, each time it stormed, to let him out and shoo him to the couch. She would admonish him to be up before Vernon woke up. 

“You must have worn her clothes at some point,” Voldemort commented sleepily, swinging a long hand out of the blanket to make a lazy, swirling gesture, which conjured a dark curtain over the window blocking out the dawn. 

For a moment, Harry was taken back to his childhood, to the cupboard. He had been eight and had worn Petunia’s powder-blue dress, to have the smell of her jasmine perfume on his skin. It was the closest he had gotten to a caress from her. He had been jealous of each touch, kiss and caress bestowed on Dudley. She had caught him trying to return the dress to the laundry-basket. She had only worn it once afterwards, for his ninth birthday, which had gone by utterly unremarked upon. He had noticed the dress though and it had made him feel loved.

“Harry?” 

“How did you know?”

“I was speculating,” Voldemort murmured, drawing a hand down Harry’s chest in a languid, soothing manner. “Most of my peers wed and reared children, you know. I have watched them grow up. I have watched the tragedies of their lives and how it affected them. There are patterns.” 

Voldemort had been the tragedy of Harry’s life. He knew better than to say that. They had never spoken of Godric’s Hollow. He knew that they never would. 

“Attachment to a maternal figure is to be expected. It was a pattern in my childhood too.”

“The matron?” Harry asked, frowning. She had not really looked motherly at all. Petunia, at least, was lavishly maternal with Dudley. 

“No, my choir-teacher,” Voldemort told him. “Flora. A young girl of nineteen. Came from one of the Whitechapel neighbourhoods. Poor as a church-mouse, but a genteel sort of poverty. She married a tanner and they moved to Cheltenham when I was nine. I knew her for five years.”

“Was she like my Aunt Petunia?” Harry asked curiously. He had never heard of this story before. How had it escaped Dumbledore’s attention? A choir-teacher? Tom Riddle had a nice voice, from what Harry remembered. It was still difficult to imagine the boy singing Hallelujah, scrubbed and dressed in white.

“Flora was the only woman I had any sort of respect for in my childhood,” Voldemort remarked. “She dressed modestly, spoke carefully, and treated the children well. She was sometimes kind to me. Gave me a penny here or there. She could not afford to. She gave me my first piece of candy. I hoarded the pennies. When she was leaving, I rushed to the Docks and bought a tasselled, yellow scarf. She sent me a photograph, six months later, from Cheltenham, of her wearing a smocked dress and the scarf. She looked plumper. It was a time of rationing at the orphanage. So I noticed the plumpness first.” 

“Wow!” Harry whispered. He was fiercely glad that he had heard this from Voldemort first, before he had seen it in a memory in a Pensieve. It was a simple tale. He had a few of those too. Teachers at the Muggle school had been kind to him, and had given him chocolate and crayons. 

“Did you see her again?” Harry asked. 

Voldemort sighed. So he had. Harry wondered what had happened. Had Flora been busy with her children and failed to recognize Riddle? 

“I saw her once, during the summer when I was fifteen. I had killed my father and had been…unsettled. I ended up in Cheltenham. My magic, back then, was raw and potent, often capable of manifesting itself on pure emotion alone. So I ended up on a porch, being barked at by farm-dogs. Flora’s house. She recognized me instantly. She drew me a bath and then served me a hot meal. It was watery gruel, but it was better fare than whatever I had been eating at the orphanage. There was an apple, I remember. It was war-time, then. I clutched a large towel that she had given me, and sat by the well, while she washed my clothes. She spoke about her children who were spending their summer with their grandmother, she spoke about her husband who had enlisted. I realized that I had nothing in common with her. I also realized that I was still fond of her. She thought I had ended up in a London gang and tried to escape. After I reassured her that I was not in trouble of any sort, and that I was not on drugs, or peddling drugs, she let me leave. She made me promise to finish school. I sent her a postcard from London when I finally left Hogwarts, along with a batch of soap I had made. She sent me her dead husband’s pair of ivory cuffs. I left London, and travelled. When I returned, I sent a post-card again. Her son replied to inform me that she had died falling from a ladder in their barn.”

Harry was at a loss for words. It often happened in his conversations with Voldemort. The man had lived so much that it was beyond Harry’s knowledge of the world to relate to or reply to many of the experiences Voldemort narrated. 

“I am glad that she recognized you,” he said finally. “It must have been the cheekbones.” 

Humour was the last resort. Luckily, often, it was enough. It was enough that time too, because Voldemort laughed.

“Aunt Petunia is nothing like her,” Harry continued. “I hate to think about it too much, but I think some of my habits are from her.” 

It bothered him a lot. He was as obsessive about cleanliness as she was, and Voldemort’s mess in the room irritated him. He liked to wake up early. He drank his tea the way she did. He even made grocery lists the way she did, planning out each meal carefully. Whenever someone compared him to James or Lily, he felt uncomfortable. Petunia had been more real than old photographs and Sirius’s stories. 

“Only the good habits, I am sure,” Voldemort offered. “Being a hero, you are resistant to the bad ones.”

Aunt Petunia. Petunia had risked her marriage and her suburban existence to take him in. Each episode of Vernon’s infidelity, upon discovery by his wife, had been accompanied by him accusing her of wasting his hard-earned money on that no-good dead whore’s son. Petunia had never spoken of that to anyone else, Harry knew, just as he knew that she resented him for it. He had offered her divorce, and told her that he would battle legally for the custody rights over Dudley, and that she could make do with the boy she was so keen to waste money on. 

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Harry told Voldemort frankly. He did not know what to make of it himself, on most days. 

—-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone recommended this on tumblr; thank you, that was very kind of you.


	21. Only as base as our instincts

When Harry woke the next morning, he woke to the smell of coffee. He stretched and rubbed his eyes, savouring the fresh aroma. Wondering why Voldemort was awake before him, he got to his feet and trudged to the kitchen. 

“I had thought I might have to wake you,” Voldemort remarked, coming over to hand him a cup. Harry peered at it sleepily, and saw that the frothing was in the shape of a holly leaf. 

“You impress me,” Harry said sincerely, looking up. 

“That is frighteningly little to be impressed by,” Voldemort replied, returning to his own cup. “Do you have meetings today?”

“No,” Harry answered. “I thought I would go along to Hogwarts and see if I can ask Flitwick to teach me a few handy shield charms.”

“Are you amenable to a day in London? I cannot take you to dens of vices, since you are a hero, noble and pure. We can go to West End.”

It must have been born of the night’s conversation. Harry was not going to complain. He agreed enthusiastically. 

“That is settled, then. Go on, put some warm clothing on. We shall leave in fifteen minutes, if that suits you. I have to change my appearance, so that I won’t be ported off to some alien exhibit.”

Harry had forgotten all about that. He had become accustomed to Voldemort’s appearance a long time ago, first finding it eerie and then later finding it eerily beautiful. 

“Polyjuice?” he asked, scrunching his nose in disapproval.

Voldemort laughed and left the kitchen, calling out, “Don’t be late!”

Ten minutes later, Harry paced the kitchen, wondering if he should put aside his general reluctance about exploring the house to indulge his curiosity and go see what Voldemort had turned himself into. Whoever he turned into, Harry knew that he would not be attracted to or be comfortable with the man. He scrunched his nose again.

“Ready?” 

It was a familiar voice. Harry turned swiftly, eyes wide, and took in the form of Tom Riddle. Physically, he appeared to be in his fifties, with the gently receding hairline and the soft lines on his forehead. As thin as Tom Riddle had been, and yet not as thin as Voldemort was, and the robes were filled out more. 

“Wow,” Harry whispered, walking closer, feeling strange about it all. “You had your hair saved just for such occasions?” 

“I save samples of most body materials in case I need them later down the line,” Voldemort replied. “Now come along, I need to find some Muggle clothing.” 

“Can’t you just Transfigure them?” Harry asked curiously, falling in line with Voldemort as the man walked briskly to the room across their bedroom. 

It was bare and only had two cupboards. Not for the first time, Harry wished there were more hours in the day, so that he could finally make this house more hospitable. Voldemort was worse than him, making do with a single room stuffed with books and blankets. At least, Harry had the excuse that he was young and had only left school. Voldemort should have accumulated more possessions by now, at this age. The clothes looked old, the books looked old, and even the blankets looked old. Not ancient, but well-used. 

Voldemort walked to one of the cupboards and said, “Transfiguring clothes is easier for me if I am doing it for someone else. I cannot get it right if I am doing it for myself. I can manage passably if I have a mirror. In this case, I don’t need to, since my old clothes should suffice.”

The cupboard held books on two levels, and neatly folded clothes on another. Voldemort pulled a shirt and a pair of trousers carefully from the stack. 

“I had forgotten that these require braces. Is that popular these days?” 

“No, I don’t think anybody wears them except the bankers and the Harrow boys,” Harry said honestly.

Voldemort leaned over to kiss him but Harry felt awkward, because he looked like Riddle, and Harry was not physically attracted to that appearance. 

“Only for a few hours,” Voldemort promised him, correctly sussing out his discomfort. 

He turned his back to Harry and stepped out of his robes. Harry liked what he saw, aesthetically. He did not feel overcome by lust or affection though. Mostly, he felt awkward, at having to stare at a nude stranger’s back, while also feeling unable to move his gaze away. Still, there was something erotic about the way Voldemort kept his back to Harry, and somehow Harry felt that it was not a calculated move, designed to catch his attention. Maybe the man felt as uncomfortable as he did, since it was a strange situation. Polyjuice transforming you into someone else was less complicated than transforming you into your own body from a few years ago. Harry saw him struggling with the braces for an instant, before taking a deep breath. Overcome, Harry moved closer and looped his arms about the man’s waist and pressed their bodies together. That elicited a sigh. Harry pressed a kiss to his neck before taking the braces, one by one, and fastening them into the loops on the fabric of the trousers. 

“Thank you.”

Harry turned him around and drew him down for a deep kiss. It was still Voldemort, regardless of what the body looked like. While the tongue exploring his mouth felt different, the kiss was still the same, first gentle and then fierce, first tentative and then sure. 

When they stepped back, the look in those eyes reminded him too much of all the Pensieve memories he had been shown, and he hated Dumbledore for having shown him as much he hated Riddle for having had sex with most everyone he could charm.

“I have a waistcoat and a jacket somewhere here,” Voldemort murmured, opening the other cupboard. “Ah, there they are.”

It was a peculiar shade of grey. Dove grey, Harry had heard it called. He had never seen Voldemort wearing anything but black. Yet, he knew that Riddle’s body would splendidly carry it off. 

“Shoes?” Harry asked. Voldemort went around barefoot everywhere, preferring to throw a handful of charms at his feet for protection and warmth.

“Did Dumbledore tell you why I don’t wear any?”

“No, I had wondered. I guess it must have something to do with that body.”

“You are correct. Young magical children, from the day they are past the foetal stage, have time to become slowly acclimated to the magic in their bodies. There is research that points to the amniotic fluids aiding this. My body cannot deal with magic coursing through it well, since it was not brought forth from such an environment. I need to have my feet in contact with the ground, since the magic in the earth below acts as a stabilizing force.” 

Voldemort rummaged on the bottom shelf of the cupboard and pulled out a pair of plain, black shoes. 

A few minutes later, they were in Covent Garden, and in the pale sunlight, the dove-grey of the suit set off Voldemort’s appearance. Harry could see a few passers-by taking notice.

“That colour really suits you,” Harry remarked. “Let me guess. Abraxas picked it for you?”

“He picked all my clothes,” Voldemort replied. “How did you arrive at the guess?”

“In all the time I have known you, I haven’t known you to care about what you wear,” Harry said dryly. 

And Abraxas had seemed like a man who cared about what everybody wore, if only not to offend his eyes. Voldemort, for all that he teasingly spoke of mathematicians being absent-minded, tended to be absent-minded himself, misplacing his personal belongings all the time and caring little about what he wore or what he ate. Harry supposed that this explained why all of Voldemort’s robes looked old, except the one that he had worn to the Christmas party. He wondered if anyone would notice if he took the measurements and ordered a few new robes from Madam Malkin’s. No, war or apocalypse, the wizarding public would still have a keen interest in stalking until they found who Harry Potter was buying robes for. Oh, well, at least Abraxas had picked clothing both functional and lasting. 

“Where did he have your robes made?” Harry asked, still wondering if he might be able to do something.

“A seamstress in Rheims,” Voldemort answered. “Why?” 

“I was just curious.”

“What is the Muggle position on homosexuality?” Voldemort asked then. “Only, I would like to take your arm in mine very much, but I remember it had been taboo in the seventies.” 

“It is all fine now,” Harry replied, warmed by the idea. “I think a lot of people woke up after Freddie Mercury died. Was it very bad earlier?”

“It had been stressful then,” Voldemort remarked, suiting act to wish. “I remember being all of nineteen and being frightened out of my wits about the persecution of a war hero mathematician. He committed suicide after the hormonal injections they forced him to undergo resulted in depression.”

“Hormonal injections?” Harry asked, aghast. 

“It was a cruel time for those who liked taking it up the arse. Look. We are walking arm in arm, clearly comfortable and familiar with each other, and bear no family resemblance, yet nobody is heckling us. It is different. Even our ages do not seem to offend anyone, as if it is common enough to see a youth barely twenty and a man in his late fifties together.”

“Uncle Vernon says age difference is a good thing. Many of his work-mates have younger wives. Second wives, I think.”

“Yet another cultural difference that I have not yet fully understood. I can’t say I see anything appealing about having a wife younger than your children. I suppose my stand is irrelevant, since I cannot say I see anything appealing about having a wife at all. Children, on the other hand…”

“What about children?” Harry asked, distracted, as he watched the humdrum of daily life about them, Londoners hurrying to and fro on their Saturday errands. The skies were overcast and he wished he had brought along the old umbrella he had seen in the second cupboard. Then his brain caught up and he turned sharply to look at his companion, curious.

Voldemort cast him a considering look, as if hesitant. Harry nudged him and asked again, ”Children? Legacy?”

“No, not legacy.”

Not legacy? Harry chewed that over. His first response was to decry that answer, but he held calm. He knew that Voldemort was not particularly sane on some subjects, but he also knew how the major influences in Voldemort’s life had been different from what everyone considered must have been factors. 

“Why would you like children?” Harry asked, taking particular care to keep his voice quiet and curious.

“Children are the consequence of accord and union with your lover, in most circumstances. If I had a lover, I saw no reason to bar myself children with the man,” Voldemort replied. “No reason except biology. There are magical methods to transplant sperm into a volunteering woman’s womb, just as I hear there are surrogacy programmes in the Muggle world.” 

“But then it won’t be a child of the actual partners,” Harry said thoughtfully.

“No.”

It made sense, didn’t it? Voldemort treated his lovers well, invested in his relationships significantly and was not disparaging or discourteous when it came to fulfilling his partner’s needs. It stood to reason that he would prefer everything as fair as was possible in a relationship. 

It was strange to Harry, still, how Voldemort saw children as a consequence of accord and union with a lover. He was fairly sure that many couples had children because they had to, or because they were expected to, or because it had accidentally happened, or because it had seem the logical next step after a marriage. Hermione, he knew, did not like children very much, and had an instinctive aversion to Mrs. Weasley’s discussions about her brood. Ron, on the other hand, seemed to take it for granted that children happened after a marriage. He thought about how Eloise Malfoy had needed to be impregnated through magical methods, because her husband had been of no use. Deciding to have children seemed to be a luxury very few had. Yet, thinking again about Arthur and Molly, he suspected they might have genuinely wanted children. 

Then there was Petunia. For all the love that she lavished on Dudley, she was not fond of children. Neither was Vernon. They must have had Dudley purely because everyone else around them had children. Lily and James had loved the idea of children, Sirius had told him once. Harry wondered if he had inherited his aversion to children from Petunia then. 

During the last year, when he had stumbled into and then become sure in his intimacy with Voldemort, he had come to understand that he was extremely covetous of his partner’s attention and that it helped his confidence and self-esteem a great deal. He was like one of those women Ginny criticised, blooming under a lover’s attention and care. He did not want to share the attention bestowed on him by adding a child into the mix. In a way, he had always known that, because even when he had been dreaming of women and marriage, children had not been in his fantasies for his future. 

Harry bit his lower lip thoughtfully. If Petunia had seen him do that, she would have chided him. Petulant, he bit his lip harder, taking vicious satisfaction in the thought of how much it might offend her, and yet feeling somewhat hollow about the victory. 

Voldemort directed him down Drury, until they reached a small, brightly-lit building. It was playing ‘Basic Instinct’. Oh, wow! Harry had not been to a cinema before, and had been eagerly looking forward to this trip since Voldemort had suggested it. 

“It is probably about murder,” Harry commented, following Voldemort in through the swinging doors. “Cain and Abel. Are you sure you want to go and watch a murder drama?”

“Was it Cain’s basic instinct to kill?” Voldemort asked absently, paying for the tickets. “Only, I think it was premeditated. To kill requires deliberation, except in very unusual circumstances. And no, I see pictures of a beautiful woman. It is likely to be about the other basic instinct.”

“Sex?” Harry asked, in a hushed voice, trying not to blush at having spoken aloud the word in a public setting. 

Voldemort laughed at that warmly before taking his arm and saying, “Strange that you don’t speak as reluctantly when discussing murder.”

That was true. Why would be it more taboo to talk about sex than about murder? They walked into the giant hall and found seats at the very back. 

“Why not sit closer?” Harry asked, confused. 

“I can’t introduce you to one of the finest cinema traditions if we sit closer,” Voldemort explained briskly, dragging Harry past a stately gentleman who cast them an appraising look.

“Tradition?”

The film turned about to be about both the basic instincts. There was murder and there was sex, in plenty. Harry found Catherine Tramell beautiful and passionate, and spotted a physical resemblance to Narcissa Malfoy. God, he hoped he would not think of that leg-crossing scene the next time he saw Draco’s mother! 

The man, Nick Curran, however, was imposing and solidly built. He exuded authority and demanded respect. Reminded him of Rufus. 

The plot twists were complicated and Harry was beginning to give up guessing the motives and the identity of the killer. He had been fairly sure that Catherine was the killer, but then Nick’s old flame turned up and it was getting convoluted. Then, a hand brushed gently over the front of his trousers. 

He was about to look at Voldemort when he was directed, “Watch the film, Harry.” 

Harry gulped as the zip was worked down deftly. Voldemort tapped his knuckles against Harry’s thighs, commanding them to be parted. Harry wet his lips and watched the extremely arousing sex scene on the screen while Voldemort’s fingers whispered up and down his cock. God, he had never wanted to be an exhibitionist! Was he one now? He was clearly enjoying it! He jerked, uncontrolled, into the warm palm above. Voldemort made a soft tsk and went about it as if he had all the time in the world, with touches too soft and not enough. The torture continued until the credits rolled at the end.

“Time to return,” Voldemort said cheerfully. “Did you enjoy the film?” 

Harry groaned and moved Voldemort’s hand away, zipping himself back up with care and effort, hoping that his winter coat would obscure it from the public. When they reached the exit, though, Voldemort dragged him down another corridor, and pushed him into an empty room.

“We can’t!”

Voldemort closed the door behind him and walked over to grab Harry and turn him about to face the cracked wallpaper. Harry was grateful for that, on some level. Earlier, when Voldemort had touched him, it had been in the darkness of the theatre, and Harry had not seen the strange features. Now, facing away, he was still spared that. There was nothing wrong with how Tom Riddle’s body looked, except that it was not the body Harry was familiar with. It was like having sex with a stranger, or cheating on a partner, and all of that confused Harry to no end. Facing away was easier.

“Trousers down,” Voldemort commanded. “Legs apart. Hands spread and placed on the wall. If you are indecent enough to get aroused at a cinema, Harry, you are indecent enough to get fucked against a wall. You had best hope that nobody enters and sees you, because I have not locked the door.”

Harry felt his cock scrape along the wallpaper leaving stains. It was so arousing, unexpectedly. Voldemort then upped the ante, stuffing two fingers into Harry’s mouth. He laved them wet and well, his gut clenching in deep arousal as he realised what Voldemort was about to do. 

When Voldemort fucked him with those fingers, he rubbed against the friction of the wallpaper, and the obscenity of it all made him shudder so. 

“Now!” he demanded, voice hoarse and broken, back arching, forehead resting against the wall and neck drooping in pleasure. 

Voldemort fucked him then, roughly and fiercely, and the burn was too much, too harsh, and yet glorious. Harry found himself gasping and softly moaning, pressing back against the bruising grip Voldemort’s hands had on his hips. And when Voldemort lightly scraped the crook of his neck with teeth, Harry came. Voldemort came a few moments later, and immediately withdrew, and chanted spells to heal and soothe. 

“Did you have to?” Harry asked, disappointed. He had relished the experience. He found himself swung around to be kissed deeply. Sighing, he pulled the man closer and relaxed into the embrace.

“Allow me my limitations,” Voldemort murmured, pulling back with a wry smile. “I cannot enjoy my postcoital bliss if you are hurt by our coupling.” 

Harry was about to point out that he had been enjoying the roughness, but decided to let it be. Sometimes, Voldemort could be stubborn. And Harry knew that Voldemort had a problem with rough sex. He remembered that Pensieve memory he had seen of Riddle and Abraxas, where Riddle had refused to go rougher because he claimed that rough sex was rarely as pleasurable as it was imagined to be. Harry supposed that was a good stand, in general. Still, he remembered Pansy biting him and raking her nails over him and it had been pleasurable too. It was a preference, Harry guessed. Voldemort liked passion but preferred to stay away from actual roughness in bed. Harry suspected he himself would not mind a mixture of the two.

They helped each other arrange their clothes back to rights and left the building. The cold London breeze was a welcome pleasure to Harry after the warmth of the sex. He took in a deep breath and smiled. Then he offered his arm to Voldemort, who took it easily. 

“This is St. Paul’s,” Voldemort said as they walked, pointing out a old, red-brick building. “The Actors’ church, as they call it. Many theatre performers and actors still come here to pray. It is also a good place to make connections in that profession. Shaw’s Pygmalion was first staged here, in this church, back in the early 1900s. When the war was going on, there still used to be plays staged here for the frightened, wary public that was on alert for the bomb-sirens. Since all the men were off to war, for the first time, women acted on stage. I have fond memories of an Antonio with pendulous breasts.”

Harry tried to imagine that and failed. It did bring home memories of that well-endowed woman who had been his downfall in London the last time he had visited. Glad for his companion’s presence, Harry forcefully turned his mind to the tale and wondered how a young Tom Riddle must have stood in the Covent Garden Piazza, enchanted, watching big-breasted women playing Shakespeare’s men.

“You must have liked it a great deal,” he remarked. “It is quite far from Wool’s.”

“I came here first on a winter evening, on New Year’s Eve. I was turning eight. They were performing a Punch and Judy skit. There were very few watchers, since it was cold and snowing, and most everyone was in their warm homes celebrating the turn of the year. It was the best birthday I had marked, though my shoes had holes and my teeth chattered in the cold. I am very intolerant of Christmastime cheer, but that night, I felt enough goodwill towards fellow men that I even wished my father well, wherever he might have been. Half a lifetime from then, I killed him and wondered if he had ever wished me well at Christmastime.”

Had the father even known? Harry did not think so. Dumbledore certainly had not thought so. Gently, he asked, “Maybe he didn’t even know that you existed?”

“He knew,” came Voldemort’s sharp reply. “Orphanage matrons are clever and resourceful, when it comes to money. Mine tracked him down to his village and was turned away when she attempted to discuss wardship. Mrs. Cole, during the war, once told me that she had written often to him, to beseech him for funds to buy food and warm clothing. He replied once, stating that he cared more for the contents of his chamberpot than for whatever devil that ugly hag had died birthing. He advised her to send me off to war, so that I could be useful at least in dying. Later, when I faced him over a dinner table, he called me a faggot. Frightened and unnerved, I crashed into his mind, and found memories of him having the most depraved sex with my mother. She looked so pathetically grateful as he used her again and again. When I managed to pull away from his mind, even though he had in him not a speck of magic, he must have sensed something, because he asked me if I was as good at giving head as she had been.“

“Dear God!” Harry exclaimed in a hushed voice, gripping the man’s arm tighter.

That was worse than anything Vernon had shouted at him. And Dumbledore had not been able to find that out. Dumbledore had thought, all along, that Tom Riddle’s father had not known about his son’s existence until the latter had shown up at dinnertime to kill them all. 

Sex. Harry could not imagine sex between his parents, but even when he tried, he could only imagine Lily laughing and James affectionate. He knew that they had loved each other. What had happened between Voldemort’s parents was a different can of worms. Merope had no self-esteem and had been walked over by all the men in her life. No wonder why she had taken to that kind of treatment without protest. She must have, on some level, taken it as all that she deserved. The man, on the other hand, had always been able to take things for granted, and to take people for granted, and had just treated her the same as he had treated anything else he had not coveted or particularly desired.

Voldemort could have taken that out on his partners and Harry was sure he could have still found many willing partners who would be drawn to the power and the charisma. Instead, Voldemort had carefully chosen to keep power exchanges out of his sexual and intimate relationships. Maybe there was even a little bit of Merope in him, in how he had let Abraxas get away with almost anything. Harry decided against that, after more thought. To all appearances, it had seemed as if they had shared a pleasant and well-balanced relationship, until the end. 

He thought what he could say without sounding like the naive, shocked fool that he felt he was. Sighing, he gave up and gently rested his head against Voldemort's shoulder as they walked arm-in-arm. 

"It is raining," Voldemort remarked then. So it was. Harry watched the pitter-patter on the streets, and Londoners opening their umbrellas to shield against the rain. 

"Should have brought that brolly in the cupboard," he said distractedly.

"That wasn't mine."

"I know."

Voldemort sighed and stopped walking, before sliding out of his winter coat. Then he brought it up over Harry's head and gathered him close with his arm around Harry's waist, murmuring something about how it was a long walk to wherever they could apparate from. Harry paid only half his attention to whatever he was saying, his mind wrapped up in the conversation before, trying to say something that expressed what he felt about Riddle's father.

Finally, he settled for inadequate honesty, and said quietly, “I love you.”

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think! :)


	22. Such company we keep

“Home-wrecker!” the woman yelled. Molly looked uncomfortable. Bill finally walked to the woman and lead her to the garden. 

“Ginny,” Ron whispered. “She…had an affair with Scamander,” he said. “He is fifty! That is his wife.”

Wow. Harry blinked. Hermione looked disapproving. Mr. Weasley’s face was grim. 

“Well, we can’t fret about this,” Molly said finally, pulling herself together with great effort. “She is old enough to do what she wants. There is a war going on. We must worry about the important things.”

Right. Ron was posted to Scarborough. The rest of the Weasley boys also had assignments. Hermione was spending her days nose-deep in old books, helping the Unspeakables. Harry had his mission coming up in two days. 

“Such an age difference!” Hermione hissed, as soon as Ron’s parents left the room. 

“It is kind of normal in the Muggle world,” Harry told her. He had read a lot of celebrity magazines that Petunia had been happy to leave scattered on the kitchen counter. Mick Jagger's women were young. McCartney's women were young. Many of Vernon’s colleagues were married to younger women. 

“Not in our world,” Ron said uncomfortably. “We don’t even have celebrity affairs frequently, you know. The last big one was Abraxas Malfoy throwing over his wife for his lover. That was bad. The papers ran articles for weeks about the Malfoy wife being moved from the west wing to the lower side wing the morning right after the wedding.”

“Was his affair with someone his own age?” Hermione asked.

“I don’t know.” Ron shrugged. “Nobody knows for real but Aunt Muriel said it was bad. His wife was made pregnant with a lot of Mediwizardry. He never took her to any party. Muriel knew her well. Said he had never slept with her. It got to her in the end. She was admitted to St. Mungo’s after his death.”

“What?” Hermione gasped. “Why did he even marry?”

“He had to,” Ron explained. “There was a lot of money and he didn’t have a kid.”

“He could have then actually tried to impregnate her,” Hermione said, confused. “He could have adopted.”

“There was probably all kinds of old magic to make sure that he couldn’t adopt,” Ron said. “Muriel said he was gay and his affair was with someone high-profile.”

Bill, who had just returned after sending away Scamander’s wife, cut in, saying, “Mad-Eye knows more about that. He says it was bad business.”

“Oh,” Hermione said thoughtfully. 

“Yeah, it was in the papers then a lot,” Ron said. “Ginny’s stuff is not that bad. Since everybody is more interested in the war, it doesn’t even get press coverage except two columns about that Scamander is cheating on his wife with a younger woman.” 

“The age-difference!” Hermione moaned.

Harry wondered what to think about the age difference in his relationship. There were bigger problems to worry about on that front, though. 

“Harry, are you all right? Ginny, I mean.”

Harry shrugged. “We have a war, like Molly said. Ginny is an adult.” 

“She waited a long time. You should have moved earlier if you had wanted a chance with her,” Hermione said sadly. 

“I didn’t want to,” he assured her truthfully. 

——

“How are you holding up?” Mad-Eye asked him at the Order meeting.

Harry shrugged. He liked Mad-Eye but he half-expected the man to change into Barty Crouch every other second. 

“Bill Weasley says that you three have been digging into the 1953 scandal,” Mad-Eye said then, his eyes both fixed on Harry.

“Yes!” Hermione piped up across the table. “He told us you know all about it.”

“Not a story for young ladies,” Mad-Eye muttered. 

“He was gay?” Hermione asked. “I don’t mind hearing about that.”

Mad-Eye’s raspy laughter unnerved her but she held her composure and smile. Harry exchanged a fond glance with Ron.

“We raided his house for drugs in 1953,” Mad-Eye said. “He was an addict. Mrs. Malfoy was in another part of the house. She greeted us and refused to let us enter his bedroom. Was adamant about it. We had a warrant, so we forced entry. We expected to find drugs. We found him getting fucked into the mattress by his lover. The man was clever. I give him that. He must have Disillusioned himself immediately when the door was forced. There is a provision of the penal code which states that adultery is a crime. So we could arrest Malfoy for that. We asked them to come peacefully with us,” Mad-Eye’s face darkened. “I lost an eye and a leg. The rest of my team was butchered. There were feathers everywhere, because the pillows on the bed had been shredded by spells.”

“You escaped?” Ron asked in a hushed voice.

“Malfoy had taken a wound and fell to the ground. His lover was momentarily distracted by that and I took the chance to grab my emergency port-key.”

“Was it your wand?” Ron asked with great interest.

“Ron!” Hermione said, disappointed. “Wands are highly magical objects. You cannot do port-key magic on them. You risk tampering with their functionality. Also, your port-key won’t really work as it is meant to.”

“I had a fake tooth,” Mad-Eye explained. “That was the emergency port-key.”

“Wow!” Hermione whispered. “Did Malfoy stand trial? Did you find the other man? What did his wife have to say on the witness stand?”

“He bought his way out. She did not remember anything. It was my word against Abraxas Malfoy’s. His wand was checked and there were no offensive spells on it. He had not cast any. The Wizengamot liked him. They gave me extra wages and a bravery medal for getting injured in the line of duty.”

“This man must have been a Death Eater!” Ron exclaimed. 

“That is what I thought too, until Malfoy fell. Perhaps one of the Lestranges or the Rosiers. They had been bloodthirsty and savage. My speculations were thrown off when the lover slipped in his distraction,” Mad-Eye said quietly. “Slipped enough to use powerful, wandless magic to heal Malfoy’s wound.”

Ron swore softly. Hermione’s eyes were as round as coins. Harry asked carefully, “Didn’t you recognize the yew wand before that?”

“No, it was an ebony wand. A decade or so later, I learned that he often switched between wands, to make sure he was not dependent on his original wand of yew.”

It made sense to Harry. Voldemort was comfortable with Harry’s wand. While a great portion of that could be attributed to the connection between their wands, Harry suspected Voldemort had also trained himself to use wands that were incompatible to his magic. 

“That poor girl,” Mad-Eye said tiredly. “She was packed off to St. Mungo’s at the end of the war. The things she must have seen.”

Hermione sighed. Ron reached across to squeeze her wrist. “Did you use the information in the trial?” he asked. 

“No,” Mad-Eye replied. “I knew how trials involving Malfoys went. There was precedence. So I kept it quiet. I hunted Malfoy down, again and again. He was a reckless man. Sought my attention at raids. I was convinced that he was the key to bringing it all down. He was heavily protected by his fellow terrorists, however. It did all fall apart when he was murdered. I was right about that.”

“He was killed in a freak accident with his horses,” Ron corrected him.

“No, no, mark my words, Ronald Weasley! He was killed by his master.”

—-

“Alastor Moody thinks the world of you,” Harry remarked that night as he went about the room putting out candles. Voldemort was scribbling notes on his map that had expanded to cover one side of the wall. 

“He does, I am sure,” Voldemort replied. “All his medals and honours were ill-gotten by hunting me, after all.”

Ill-gotten? Harry suppressed a snort. He said carefully, “He had an interesting story to tell.”

Voldemort glanced at him curiously. Oh, so he did not know. Harry wondered if he should divulge what Moody knew. He did not want the old man to suffer for that. Then again, Moody was an experienced Auror and Voldemort was short on veteran leaders for his war at the moment. 

“He recognized you when he did his drug raid,” Harry said succinctly.

Voldemort’s brows were creased in bewilderment. Harry felt a pang of anger at Abraxas again. Voldemort did not think that he had done anything remarkable that day. It must have been act as unremarkable as breathing, that Voldemort had not even paused to think of it. 

“You healed Abraxas’s wound wandlessly,” Harry explained. 

“Did I?” Voldemort asked, sounding rather shaken. “I don’t remember.”

Voldemort had told Harry that his magic had been raw and potent in his childhood, capable of acting upon emotion. Harry remembered what Voldemort had said about wild magic, frightened and lashing out, when Dumbledore had cornered him in Albania. He remembered how the chant had marked him with holly and yew entwined. He remembered what Hermione had said about wands and port-keys. He remembered Grindelwald and Dumbledore duelling, gracefully and methodically, wielding their magic with complete control. He remembered how Voldemort duelled, as if he were a conduit for magic uncontrolled. 

“I think your magic is different,” Harry said quietly. Voldemort looked at him sharply. “I don’t know if I am the first to tell you this,” Harry continued. “Your magic seems to be at its most remarkable when it is driven by emotion.”

“Harry, I have not tried to persuade you to my ideas,” Voldemort said irritably. “Do me the same courtesy and leave Dumbledore’s preaching at the door when you come in.”

Harry frowned. Why would Voldemort dismiss it immediately? It was rather unlike him. Voldemort liked to consider the matter at length before judging, usually. He must have already heard of this before. He had thought about it then and found it wrong. Why? There must have been some major counter-example. Harry inhaled sharply. Godric’s Hollow. The whole mess with Wormtail. Harry had a theory for that. Abraxas’s suicide had destroyed a good portion of Riddle’s sanity, according to his theory. He did not think Voldemort would care to hear about it, though. So he kept quiet.

“You must not enter the cathedral if Grindelwald is there,” Voldemort said suddenly, looking at the map, where he had circled Canterbury in bright red ink. “That wand is nothing to trifle with. Bella can get a trifle excited during such adventures. Make sure that she does nothing to endanger both of you.”

“I can’t drag her away, can I?” Harry muttered. “She will do what she wants.”

“Azkaban was enough. I won’t have her in Nurmengard,” Voldemort said softly, eyes faraway. “She is loyal. I cannot have her captured.”

“Why are you sending her then?” Harry asked. “I am all right with somebody else. Like Remus Lupin. Or even Snape!”

“She is loyal,” Voldemort said flatly. “It is important that nobody knows about our intimacy or the bond. Bella won’t talk about what she might see, even if she is witness to my possession. I know you hate her. She hates you too. I still expect the two of you to work well in tandem. She will protect you and you will make sure that she does not do anything reckless.”

Harry did not think there was anything he could do to prevent that nutcase from doing something reckless. He was also confident that Grindelwald would just kill her right away even if they captured her. She was too insane to deal with as a hostage. 

“Are you coming to bed?” he asked. 

“Do you mind if I read in bed?” 

Harry had never gone to bed with the lights on, or with candles lit. He pondered that over. He had been used to sleeping in complete darkness, whether at the Dursleys’ or at Hogwarts or during all the nights he had spent with Voldemort so far. He shrugged. It was worth a try. He had seen all those films that had couples in bed, one sleeping and the other reading. It had looked cosy. 

It had been polite of Voldemort to ask him. 

“This body did me some favours,” Voldemort muttered, as they got into bed. “My eyesight had been progressively weakening over the years. The fuss of restorative potions and spells, taken every moon cycle, had been irksome.”

“I bet you like your eggs sunny-side up,” Harry teased Voldemort’s optimism, burrowing deep into the mountain of blankets. He had been finding it difficult to sleep at Ron’s. The blanket phenomenon was contagious. 

“I haven’t given any thought to that before,” Voldemort replied seriously. “Why? Is it for breakfast? I am not picky.” 

Harry smiled at Voldemort’s innocent misinterpretation. He would have to cook breakfast. He did not mind. Omelettes sounded like a good idea. 

“Do you have any vegetables?”

“I stocked everything you had written down on that list on the refridgerator,” Voldemort replied absently, his attention already returned to his long parchment. 

Once upon a time, Harry’s grandest dream had been to have enough money to buy what he liked and to cook what he liked in a kitchen that was all his own. He had planned out meals that he would create, based on the stories Petunia had smugly spoken of, regarding dinner parties she had attended and restaurants she had eaten at. Buttered asparagus and caviar had haunted his dreams.

He had wanted to marry a woman who would share his tastes in food. He did not want someone like Hermione who would regulate what he ate (Poor Ron). He had ended up under a mountain of blankets, dozing off to Voldemort’s scribbling and muttering, planning a breakfast for two. 

—-

“Good morning.” 

“Shut up and take my hand,” Bellatrix demanded. 

So that was business as normal then. Harry let her grab his hand and winced as her sharp nails dug into his wrist. How did her husband sleep with her talons? Maybe he was into that kind of stuff. Harry shuddered.

“Don’t be a pussy,” she ordered. 

“Somebody should teach you better slang,” Harry muttered, wincing again when her nails twisted in his flesh. 

“Sirius Black was a potty-mouth,” she hurled back. “Don’t get uppity, little boy.”

Right. Sirius. The pain was distant but still present. Harry could not get into that right then. He needed to focus, to stay calm, to see this done safely. Dumbledore had made him promise. Voldemort counted on him.

They apparated into a small cloister. Bellatrix’s wand was held high and she moved quietly along the shaded path, beckoning him after her. She extricated a small crystal pendulum from her corset and swung it once. It glowed green. 

“This is important,” she whispered, looking serious. “It tells you if there are wards ahead, northward, up to a distance of ten paces.”

She seemed to be completely in her element, sneaking them about through narrow, stone pathways and high-ceilinged, dark chapels. She did not need an invisibility cloak. She was light-footed and moved gracefully through the shadows, all her sashaying and strutting a distant echo. Harry was adept at the business himself, having spent his Hogwarts days doing this all the time, and often found that Ron and Hermione were clumsier than he was. They had reached a large, cavernous space. A beam of light crept in through a high and distant lattice. Bellatrix looked eerie among the dust-motes. 

“We are in the crypts beneath the cathedral. I was told to bring you here,” she muttered. “I am going to block that light. It is not safe. Too exposed.”

Harry was not afraid of darkness, but his heart skipped a beat when she conjured dirt to cover up the lattice. Were they under Thomas Beckett’s chapel? Was the crater that had been left in the wake of Dumbledore’s defeat still there above their heads? He sensed a growing pressure in the bond then. Right. He took a deep breath and attempted his best to relax. Voldemort’s surge through his mind gave him a splitting headache, as always, but at least he was left standing. He sensed magic leaving his wand, cautious and probing. Voldemort was worried and stressed out, he could tell. He gulped and did his best to relax more. The sooner they were done, the better.

The chant was long and monotonic, and passed his lips as if a stranger’s, and Harry could hear Bellatrix’s soft breathing throughout as she kept guard. Once or twice, they heard the flutter of bat-wings and the slithering of insects on the ground. Then the earth shook and groaned. Bellatrix gasped and steadied his swaying form quickly. She had fast reflexes, Harry noted. Her wand was already casting powerful shields. They were coming.

It was tiring Voldemort, he could sense. By proxy, it was tiring Harry too. He absently wondered how that worked. The tone of the words was flagging. It must have been powerful. The walls shook. The ground shook. Gold rose amongst the crypts, hallowing them in weirdly-shaped geometric patterns, running the entire length of the hall and outwards, up the walls, around and around. Then the patterns began dancing, melding into each other, distorting, and the earth shook more. 

“Ley lines!” Bellatrix whispered in amazement. The walls were cracking and she looked frightened in the eerie golden light. Then the chant ended on a high note and Harry sensed Voldemort’s exhaustion before the bond flickered away, just like the lines of gold, and they were left in the darkness again.

“Come on,” Bellatrix whispered, grabbing his hand, and breaking into a run. “The earthquake must have alerted them by now. We need to get out. Keep a shield up at all times. Do not let your shield drop. Be ready to duck when I say so.”

“You aren’t using your ward-detector,” Harry said stupidly, trying his best to keep pace with her. She was remarkably fast for her age, wasn’t she? 

“Doesn’t matter,” she panted. “We aren’t getting out without a fight. We need to get to the light though. I can’t duel as well in the dark.”

As if on cue, spell-light dashed past her and crashed on Harry’s shield. Harry knew they were done in for. He had seen Grindelwald duel. He had seen the veterans that accompanied him. He took a deep breath and thought of his happiest thoughts, and for some reason Voldemort teaching him to shoot came up, and his silver stag bounded ahead of them, illuminating dark shadows of approaching wizards about to encircle them. 

Bellatrix really did do better in the light, Harry noticed, as she ran around him, casting spells of fire and destruction, reckless and wild. 

“Bellatrix Lestrange!” 

Bellatrix did not seem to have recognized the voice. Harry pulled her back under his shield, frightened. She hissed and tried to get out to hurl her spells, but he told her, “Grindelwald.” Her eyes widened.

“A fierce woman,” Grindelwald complimented her. “Are you looking for a change of employment? I can offer good terms.”

“The Dark Lord is the only one I serve!” she spat, and raised her wand again. She truly was a Black, Harry thought then, and dragged the woman back under his shield again. She was rather easy to drag around for all her fierceness, having none of the solidity of Andromeda Tonks. 

“And Harry Potter,” Grindelwald remarked. “Strange company you keep.”

“Stand back,” Bellatrix told Harry sharply, stepping before him. Harry was reminded of his mother and Voldemort, for a cruel instant, before he remembered that Bellatrix was mad and that Grindelwald had killed his beloved Albus Dumbledore. He raised his wand to a defensive stance nevertheless, and tried to reach Voldemort through the bond, but sensed only exhaustion and unconsciousness. They were on their own. 

“I don’t like to duel women,” Grindelwald noted. He brought up his wand of black, Dumbledore’s wand of death. Bellatrix was not afraid. She stepped forward and executed a dainty bow, and when she lifted her head, Harry saw the legacy of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black stamped fierce on her mien then.

She was not Dumbledore. She was not Voldemort. Her spells did not hit her mark, not one of them. Her shields were in tatters. She was lithe and graceful though. The same agility that had saved her from Harry’s curses at the Ministry, the same sure-footedness that had saved her from Sirius’s spells, aided her again. Magic did not save her. Her antelope-like grace did. Grindelwald looked impressed as his spells were missed by scant inches, each time, as she leapt away. 

“You cannot keep running forever,” he remarked, cutting a swathe of red through the darkness, and she pirouetted over the beam. Harry knew, and she knew, and Grindelwald knew, that she would not escape the next swathe of red. There was determination on her features, and there was grim expectation on Grindelwald’s. She fell to the floor, coughing and sputtering, bleeding over the dusty ground like a painting macabre. Grindelwald walked closer.

Harry took a deep breath and shouted, “Accio Bellatrix!” and she came to him a bleeding pile of limbs. Grindelwald raised his wand in fury, and Harry gripped his wand, but he did not speak a spell.

——


	23. Jerusalem

“You are the luckiest man I know,” Voldemort said. 

He looked wan and close to faint, but he managed to seat himself by Bellatrix’s bleeding form and dragged her to him. He closed his eyes and started singing, and he really did have a nice voice still, even if it was different from Riddle’s voice. It was what Harry called Snape’s song. Snape had healed Draco singing that. Snape’s voice had not been this pleasant to listen to. 

“You look like a weird version of the Pieta,” Harry mumbled, watching them. Bellatrix was bleeding all over Voldemort. Her mouth was slack and her eyes were twitching beneath her eyelids. 

“She is not dead,” Voldemort said, once he had finished the singing. “And I am not a virgin.” 

There were other things wrong about the comparison, in Harry’s mind. He decided not to go there. Sometimes, sanity was preserved by extreme denial. He should know. He had learned that from the best. Dumbledore had practised denial on a great many matters, and Harry had found it convenient to do the same. 

“Can I do something to help?” 

“Help me get her to the bed,” Voldemort said. “No magic. It reacts badly on wounds like these.” 

Between them, they half-dragged, half-carried the woman to the bed. Voldemort then ran a careful eye over Harry.

“I am fine.”

“Walk with me to the kitchen. I need a drink and I am not drinking alone.”

They ended up drinking whiskey out of Voldemort’s tea-cups, because he did not have any whiskey glasses.

“It is supposed to be good,” Voldemort told him. “It is an 18-year Laphroaig.” 

“Oh, good,” Harry said, and gulped, and his eyes watered. His throat burned.

“It takes getting used to,” Voldemort said, though Harry noted that he did not look too fond of it either. He raised his eyebrows. Voldemort said wryly, “I did never get used to it. It is handy, nevertheless, on days like these.”

“Are you all right?”

“I discovered something unexpected,” Voldemort said carefully, watching Harry’s teacup. “I cannot tell you about it right now. I haven’t confirmed my speculations. The ley lines were as expected, mostly, but Grindelwald had already started warping them. He had used that wand for his magic, so it was difficult to distort his spells. There is a touchstone he has brought with him from the Carpathians, and it tethers his magic to his land. It is strange and powerful. I think we should be wary of it.”

Harry wondered what Voldemort had discovered. He frowned. Was it something regarding the wand? Dumbledore must have been powerful. Bellatrix had not been able to get a single spell past Grindelwald’s shield. She had not been able to defend against any of his spells either. Dumbledore had managed to make Grindelwald bleed and held him off for a very long time. Looking at how exhausted Voldemort was, Harry felt there might be a valid reason to hide during this war.

“I should get Severus,” Voldemort said, rising to his feet. “He can stabilise her enough to then take a port-key home.”

“Your healing spell seemed to work fine,” Harry noted. 

“It is difficult to judge,” Voldemort explained. “There might be internal damage. Organs. Nerves. I am self-taught. My knowledge of female anatomy is rusty. Abraxas funded Severus’s diploma in basic healing, and Dumbledore funded his diploma in advanced healing. Let me put their investments to good use.”

Oh, that explained why Dumbledore had not called in St. Mungo’s or Poppy to heal Harry’s drug overdose and the other consequences of his summer incident. Snape had had extensive training.

“Did you get your lungs checked, then?” Harry asked, concerned. That lung had been torn through and there had been blood everywhere. He shook that image out of his head.

“No. Severus might have a question or two about the extensive scarring on my body,” Voldemort said wryly. 

Harry’s concern grew. If Voldemort had admitted that his knowledge was sketchy at best, would it not be better to just consult an expert? The man looked fine. Perhaps it was that instinctive, emotion-triggered magic at work again. 

—- 

Harry occupied himself in the kitchen, making lists. Then he decided to label the spices neatly. It made the process of cooking faster. He winced when he saw the final arrangement of condiments and spices was similar to Petunia’s arrangement in her kitchen. Oh well, it was what he was best used to. 

The door opened and Voldemort walked in. He looked rather harried. 

“How does Beef Wellington sound?” Harry enquired. 

“Whatever you want,” Voldemort said distractedly. “Harry, sit with Severus until I move Bella back to her home. I don’t want him unwatched. I would send him along now, but I need to debrief him regarding Scotland.”

“I am not sitting with him inside the bedroom where we fuck regularly,” Harry hissed, scandalised. The man obsessed over his mother, for God’s sake. “Send him here. He can watch me cook and criticise every step. It should keep him occupied. Tell him you made me your cook. That should make his day.”

Voldemort raised his eyebrows, but nodded and left. Snape arrived, surly as ever, and had his best scowl in place to greet Harry.

“You should have left her to die,” was the first comment. “She is a bitch.”

It might be the only thing ever Sirius and Snape could have agreed upon. Harry shrugged. He had seen how much effort Voldemort had put in to heal the woman, even if he had been teetering on the edge of exhaustion. He had seen her stand fierce against Grindelwald, despite knowing what that wand meant. She had shoved Harry behind, not because she wanted to protect him for his sake, but because of the loyalty she had to Voldemort. She was a mad bitch, but she deserved to die in a more evenly matched duel. If Sirius had killed her in that duel, it would be fairer, Harry mused. He certainly would have liked that outcome better. 

“Do you know how she tortured the Longbottoms into insanity?” Snape hissed, looking tremendously out of sorts. 

Harry knew. Was it a mistake? If he had not prevented Sirius from killing Wormtail, Sirius could have been free. He might not have been reckless and might be still safe and hale. Voldemort would not have had to deal with that rat either. Voldemort would not have returned and Harry’s life would have been simpler. Maybe it would have been for the better. No, Harry would not have come to know Voldemort as he did. That was not a world he desired.

Snape looked uncomfortable and terribly sad. Had he wanted her to die that badly?

“The Headmaster knew, didn’t he?”

Harry looked at him with rising horror. Too late it was then to shield his mind. 

“I-”

“You should learn to clear your mind,” Snape said tiredly. “You should also stop this…liaison. His last lover got torn into pieces by horses. The Headmaster had your best interests at heart, but he placed the greater good above his pawns. His tacit approval did not mean anything.”

“He didn’t kill Abraxas.”

“No, he was the reason why Abraxas Malfoy killed himself,” Snape replied. 

Harry did not have a reply for that. They stared at each other for a long instant before Snape muttered, “You are old enough. I am not Sirius Black or Remus Lupin to try and convince you of the utter folly you have embarked upon. It does explain why you eagerly consented to bend and take his mark. You had been bending over for him long before that.”

“At least, I am not going to spend the next twenty years obsessing over what could have happened if only I had bent over,” Harry said sharply. 

Snape’s face told him how cruel that had been. 

“I am fine. I don’t mind the mark,” Harry hurried on. 

Sensitive. Not resilient. Bitter. Everything Dumbledore and Voldemort had said about the man resounded in Harry’s mind. It would not be useful at all to try and convince Snape that Harry was being treated mostly fairly around here. Sure enough, Snape looked terribly unconvinced.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Snape said finally, and his face looked sour as if it had hurt him to say those words. “He is not unreasonable except when it comes to prophecies. I was loyal until he took it into his head to kill a baby over some seer’s cack.”

“Why were you loyal? He treated you badly last week. Wasn’t he like that back then?” Harry asked curiously. 

Snape shrugged, saying, “It was different when Abraxas Malfoy had been alive. The Dark Lord…was not the same afterwards. The rumours say that the Dark Lord witnessed the grisly death, and that Lucius Malfoy found him standing there spattered by Abraxas’s brains and blood. Lucius had the Dark Lord moved to France, for half a year. He returned a different man. He has recovered to an extent, I think, and doesn’t look outside himself for grounding his sanity.”

Voldemort returned then. He looked suspiciously at Snape, who was watching him thoughtfully.

“Professor Snape knows,” Harry said quickly.

“You ought to learn to clear your mind,” Voldemort replied, though his eyes were fixed on Snape. “Severus?”

Snape glanced at Harry quickly before shaking his head. Then he said, “I insist that you allow me to examine you, my lord. I noticed the uneven breath when you were assisting me with Bella earlier.”

“It must be that lung!” Harry exclaimed. 

Voldemort glared at him. Harry regretted his exclamation. Voldemort did not want Snape to see his scars. Harry could very well understand that reason. He did not like people seeing his scars either. 

Snape nodded in determination and said again, “It is important, my lord. You could collapse half-way through a duel. I am also obliged to inform your Inner Circle of concerns regarding your health. If you let me examine you and reassure myself, I would see no need to do so.”

“Oh, very well,” Voldemort said sharply. “If you are going to be intolerable, you might as well as poke and prod. Come here. Have at me.” He threw his arms open in invitation.

Snape laughed. It was fleeting and soft, but it was a laugh. Harry had never heard Snape laughing before. It was surreal. He pinched himself. Oh well, if Voldemort found a way to get that lung checked without letting Snape find the scars, Harry was fine with it.

“The bedroom?” Snape suggested. 

Harry turned his attention back to the oven. Beef Wellington was his favourite dish to make. It was simple and delicious. 

“The sheets are soaked in Bella’s blood,” Voldemort remarked. 

“I am capable of stripping down the sheets, my lord,” Snape assured him and made his way out. Voldemort shared a glance with Harry. 

“Disillusionment?” Harry suggested, carefully taking the platter of food out of the oven. He needed oven mitts. Towels were functional but he preferred the grip of mitts. “Cloaking spells?”

“He was taught by Abraxas Malfoy and Albus Dumbledore,” Voldemort replied, coming over to clear a chair from Harry’s path to the table. “I will be disappointed if such deception passes muster.”

Harry placed the dish carefully on the table and hung the towels over the nearest chair. Then he looked at Voldemort. The man looked tired and grim. Harry felt affection surge in him and he stepped in closer to press a soft kiss to the corner of Voldemort’s lips. The adrenaline rush from the day’s adventures had finally left Harry, and he felt tired too. He wanted Snape out and gone, he wanted Voldemort to sit down and eat with him quietly, and he wanted them to go to bed together. They could talk tomorrow. 

“Come with me,” Voldemort breathed. He lifted Harry’s chin and looked at him. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

Harry felt wrong-footed. He had had plenty of visitors in the Hospital Wing. Dumbledore and McGonagall and Sirius had all at different times watched Harry being examined and patched up. He had not minded. He had liked the support, particularly when Sirius had been there. He had not been on the other side though. He had never been the concerned party. 

Voldemort ran his fingers through Harry’s hair and tweaked his ears. “Don’t, then. Keep the food warm. I will return in a while.”

Voldemort had rarely asked him for anything personal, outside their sex life. Harry had not asked for much either, but whatever he had asked for, from the pots and pans to the stocked larder, to teaching him to shoot - Voldemort had acquiesced without fuss. Harry didn’t want to repeat Ron and Hermione, where Hermione often made a fuss over watching Quidditch games, while Ron made no complaint when he had to sit with her revising in the library.

“I want to come,” Harry said hurriedly, and made for the corridor before he could change his mind.

Snape looked surprised when Harry entered. Surprised and extremely discomfited. Harry made a beeline for the window-seat. Best stay out of the way. Voldemort entered then and made for the bed. He nodded to Snape and shrugged out of his travelling cloak. He folded it neatly and Harry had never before seen him do that. It had somehow become Harry’s job to pick up the clothes discarded all over the floor. 

Snape approached Voldemort and stood three paces away. He began casting, chanting softly in Latin, and some of the phrases were familiar to Harry from his long experience at Madam Pomfrey’s hands. Snape frowned now and then, and paused to make notes on a piece of parchment he had handy. 

“It is only a mending bone,” Voldemort said exasperatedly. “Let it be.”

Snape frowned and continued his work. Harry grinned at Voldemort and kept his quiet. Dumbledore had not been able to rein Snape in either, when the younger man had been determined.

“I need to listen to your lungs,” Snape said. “Do you wish to send Potter out?”

“Let him stay,” Voldemort replied, unlacing the upper half of his robe deftly. “It may convince you not to run to Grindelwald with tidings of coercing little boys to have sex with me.”

“He is not a little boy,” Snape muttered. “He is also impossible to coerce.” 

Harry did not know if he ought to feel complimented or insulted. He could not look away, from Snape’s yellow fingers which were touching Voldemort’s white skin and Snape’s brow frowning in concentration. Voldemort need not have worried about the scars. Snape was too busy with his parchment and spells.

“I need to listen to your heart,” Snape went on. 

“I don’t have one, Severus. It is known.”

“Yes, my lord. It is as you say, my lord,” Snape said, placing his hand over Voldemort’s robes on his chest and focussing again. “Your resting heart rate is high.”

“It tends to be,” Voldemort said, unconcerned. “Something went wrong with one of the many rituals Pettigrew undertook to bring this about.”

“I am going to reset that femur for you,” Snape continued, consulting his notes. “Your lung has mended completely.”

“The bone is fine. It is on the mend,” Voldemort muttered.

“If you want to live with a hip fracture that is worsening, it is your prerogative, my lord. A potion and a localised spell, and it will be done.”

“Oh, very well, do as you will!” 

Snape handed a bottle. Voldemort sniffed the contents before saying, “Wormwood makes me hallucinate. At least, it used to.” 

“It is not possible to hallucinate on the amount of wormwood contained in the potion,” Snape said snootily. He waited for ten minutes, and then cast his spell, and bowed. “It is all done, my lord. If I may take my leave?”

Voldemort leaned over and bit off one of the many buttons on Snape’s robes. Snape stepped back, mortified and outraged. Voldemort spat it into his hand and whispered a spell. 

“Here you go,” Voldemort said cheerfully, handing it over. “A port-key to take you back safely.”

“I think the wormwood content has some effect,” Harry said wryly. 

Snape glared at him and said, “This is a standard technique employed upon recalcitrant patients.” He turned to Voldemort and said, “My lord, if I could examine the scars?”

Voldemort’s eyes flew wide open and Harry rose from the window seat quickly. Snape scowled at Harry. 

“Abraxas, get him out of here,” Voldemort murmured then, looking at Harry and seeing someone dead. Harry decided to deal with that later. He was probably safer around Voldemort as Abraxas anyway. Snape, though. He had to get Snape out of there before Voldemort lost it. 

“You should leave, Professor,” Harry told him. “The scars are none of your business. They have healed and pose his health no threat.”

“There is nerve damage in his fingers. I need to know what caused them,” Snape continued. “There is no reason to let it go on. If I know the cause, I can prepare a spell or a potion to heal the nerve damage.”

“He is fine with them,” Harry said. 

“He is fine with a fractured hip too.”

“Abraxas, is this the Prince girl’s son?” Voldemort continued, peering at Snape very carefully. “You fucked her once, didn’t you? You liked her. Why did you like her? She wasn’t pretty. Eloise is pretty, pretty as a doll.”

Snape said unhelpfully, “Eloise is dead.” 

“I didn’t kill her,” Voldemort told Harry seriously. “I kept my word.”

Harry sat beside Voldemort on the bed and said as calmly as he could, “You have always kept your word to me.”

Voldemort reared back as if struck and lucidity came to his gaze. Softly, he said, “Severus, the scars are from a blunt knife. I want to keep them until I win this war.”

Snape replied, “As you wish, my lord. The nerve damage needs to be addressed. The chronic pain cannot be pleasant.”

“After the war. You were sneaky enough to do this,” Voldemort continued. “You can take your punishment. Listen to me, you foolish man. You obsess over a corpse put in the ground twenty years ago. When she was living, she was not yours. In death, she isn’t yours. You obsess over Albus Dumbledore. You were a piece on his board. He was not yours, any more than she was. He was kinder, nonetheless, in leaving you his bird at least.”

“I know,” Snape said quietly, proudly, eyes full of grief, and Harry found that he had never respected him more. “It is my burden to live with, my lord. I chose to give my love and loyalty to those who didn’t want it. It was my choice nevertheless.”

“You know where you are wanted,” Voldemort replied, standing up and placing a hand on Snape’s trembling shoulder. “You know who wanted you enough to mark you. You know who wanted you despite two betrayals. My mark is not slavery. It is magic. It is my magic coursing through your blood, claiming you as mine. Make me proud, Severus. Hold Scotland for me.”

“My lord-“ Snape began, overwhelmed, before turning tail and fleeing the room with his portkey. And Harry felt old, tired and sad. This must have been how Dumbledore had felt, again and again, when dealing with Snape and Snape-related havoc. 

He tugged Voldemort fully onto the bed and said quietly, “I think you broke him. Best stay put until it wears off. The food will keep.”

“You are alive,” Voldemort replied, staring at Harry as if he had never seen him before. “I dreamed that I saw you ripped apart by the horses. We picked their names together - Thunderfeet, Queen, Quicksilver, Snowmane, Icarus, Starbolt, Morgause. I had come prepared to give you what you said you needed, you know. You wanted declarations and promises. You wanted my horcruxes destroyed so that I could join you when I died. You didn’t know what you were asking for. I was still willing, Abraxas. I came willing. And you made me watch as they tore you apart. They did not listen to me. I had to kill them to get to you. You were laughing until you stopped laughing. You must have hated me. The last words you spoke were Happy Birthday. Your screams. I dreamed of your screams every night after. I wandered a spirit through dark forests, hunted by Aurors and trophy-hunters, and I was scared of nothing more than the echo of your scream which was always carried to me on the lightest wind. He cut me every day, sometimes more than once, and I remembered your blood on the hooves of those horses you loved. I knew that it was all a dream, and that I had to only get through one more day, and that I would return to find you standing in your riding-clothes, by the eastern borders of your manor, watching the horses canter on the open fields, a smile on your lips when you saw me return to you. I have always returned to you.” 

Harry didn’t know if the tears were for himself, or for Voldemort. He was crying nevertheless. He let Voldemort ramble on, passionately and earnestly, until words receded into silence. 

“Fetch me the vial behind the Travels of Marco Polo,” Voldemort rasped. 

Harry did that. It looked to be a plain sobering potion. Voldemort swallowed the contents and closed his eyes in exhaustion. Harry held him. 

“It is all right,” Voldemort said in a weak voice. “It was the alcohol. I would like to blame Severus, but it was the combination of the ethanol, the venom in my blood, and the wormwood. He could not have anticipated it.”

“Do you think you should sleep it off?” 

“No, you slaved over your Beef Wellington. I want to dine with you,” Voldemort said tiredly. 

The dish had turned out well. Not soggy at all, Harry decided happily, as he took a bite. Voldemort was eating carefully and the way he was holding himself made Harry suspect that he had a splitting headache. Or maybe he was still hallucinating on and off. 

Harry had known that relationships were hard work and often fucked up beyond what third parties saw. Petunia and Vernon had been enough of a lesson. Harry had never expected to deal with this though. He had not expected to be confused by his lover for a dead man. _I’ll never be his chosen one_ , Harry reflected grimly, and immediately felt like a dramatic teenager...or Snape. Riddle had chosen long ago and Voldemort held to that still. Harry felt sad but there was little anger. Surprising. Yet, how could he be angry at Voldemort for remembering how Abraxas had killed himself, for telling his hallucination how much Voldemort had suffered under the weight of that memory? Harry remembered his mother crying out and it haunted him. He remembered Sirius falling and Grindelwald standing in a crater with Dumbledore’s wand held aloft and the memories made him choke down sobs whenever he remembered. How could he hold Voldemort at fault for being haunted? 

“Your culinary skills are excellent,” Voldemort said then, resting his cutlery by the empty plate. “However did you pick up such an arcane art? I can only manage cheese on toast.” 

“My aunt,” Harry said. “She is a good cook. I picked up many recipes from what she did, though I never ate her dishes and only rarely received leftovers. Most of the food I ate had been processed, frozen, cheap supermarket brands that they stocked up on every month. I wasn’t good enough to waste organic, fresh produce on. Mrs. Weasley taught me to bake. She is very good at it.” 

“I am not fond of beef,” Voldemort said. “This, however, has been delightful. I would be happy if you made this again one day. I wish I could reciprocate, Harry. I would, if I weren’t as appalling as I am at this art.”

“You could brew us coffee,” Harry told him amiably. “Your coffee is always a treat.”

“As you wish! I picked it up in France, as horrifying as that sounds,” Voldemort said brightly, rising to his feet, suppressing a wince at his headache, and then moving to the stove to brew them a pot of coffee. “I was sent to Marseilles after the events which you know of. I spent months there, wandering the streets by the docks. One time, it was raining, and the dockyards were empty, and even the alley-cats were not to be seen. I was set upon by thugs and left for dead in a dingy warehouse. A sailor, in his twenties, well-built and tattooed, found me and took me to his rooms above a noisy public-house. I swear, Harry, he looked like Edmond Dantes, of the Count of Monte Cristo. Dantes had been my first literary…flame. You can imagine how this story ended.”

Harry laughed and walked to join Voldemort by the stove. He understood what the man was trying to do. He was trying to take Harry’s mind off the earlier episode, to cheer Harry up. It was ridiculous to imagine young Tom Riddle mooning over a literary character, much like the way Hermione had mooned over Gilderoy Lockhart. 

“Did he have designs on you?” Harry asked, grinning. 

“He was a salt-of-the-earth sort. Decent. He let me have the cot and spent the night on the ground. Such decency only served to remind me of Edmond Dantes. If the poor man was surprised to be woken up with a mouth on his cock, he adapted remarkably well to the situation.”

“Shameless,” Harry teased him, pressing a kiss to Voldemort’s smiling lips. “You really were shameless. Sucking the cock of a man whose name you didn’t even know then!” 

“It wasn’t relevant, was it? He buggered me into the mattress until I was screaming the walls down. He bought me breakfast that day. And bought me my first cup of coffee.” 

Harry was aroused by the image of Riddle, older and more reserved, still being brought down viscerally by the pleasure of a sailor’s cock reaming him open. He could imagine it easily. Voldemort loved taking absolute control almost all the time, and when he did not wish that, he surrendered completely to being pleasured. It must have been the first time in a very long time, since Riddle had been involved with Abraxas for years and they had never switched. Harry flushed as he accepted his cup of coffee from Voldemort. 

“In times of uncertainty and distress, little is as comforting as a young man’s cock.”

Harry looked up to see Voldemort watching him carefully. Was that a hint? He thought it unlikely. They were both worn out by the day’s events. Voldemort was still nursing his headache and was likely still reeling from the effects of that concoction. 

“You have lived a bit, haven’t you?” Harry said fondly. “I am all right. You needn’t try and entertain me with stories of your wild days to take my mind off what happened earlier today, you know.”

“Are you not entertained?” 

“I am. I don’t need to be entertained, though. Are you all right? Is your headache gone?”

Voldemort shrugged and turned his focus to his coffee.

Later, as Harry joined him in bed after blowing out the candles, he traced his fingers over Harry’s mark of yew and holly, and said softly, “I wonder if I could ask you for a favour.”

“What is it?” 

“Only, if you must remember today at all, remember this too,” Voldemort whispered, tracing the marks again reverentially. “I could not have wrought this if I hadn’t had the requisite emotion. Do you understand? This is ill-advised, as Dumbledore and Severus must have already told you. Nevertheless, you aren’t bound to me by slavery. Do you understand, Harry? The magic will only bind you to me as long as you wish it to. Do you understand?” 

Harry felt Voldemort’s fingers tremble over his skin. Love. It was his love that bound him to Voldemort. He would only be bound by the mark as long as he loved. Voldemort had implied that he could not have cast the spell if he had not had borne the requisite emotion. Dumbledore had not believed that Voldemort could love anyone. Harry was beginning to believe that Voldemort was capable of the emotion, in mad, obsessive quantities. 

He placed his hand over Voldemort’s, entwined their fingers and said quietly, “I understand.”

Voldemort sighed in relief and drew him close. 

\-----


	24. On the origin of species

“You are out of your mind,” Snape muttered, when Harry entered the Potions classroom. 

“No more than usual,” Harry said peaceably. “I came to you to learn Occlumency, if you will teach me.“

It went better than Harry had expected it to. Snape had no great desire to rake through his mind, no doubt fearful of what he might find. Harry was finally beginning to grasp the basics of the business. He felt hopeful as he left Snape. 

He made his way to the library. Madam Pince was nowhere to be found. Harry went to the old Hogwarts yearbooks and various club yearbooks. He flicked through the Quidditch photos and smiled as he looked upon his father’s form grinning brightly at him. A book fell close to his elbow and he looked up to see Snape scowling at him. 

“Your mother was in Slughorn’s club,” he told Harry. “Ridiculous, of course, but she was too polite to say no.”

Harry had not seen his mother’s photograph outside the birthday album Hagrid had given him. He took the book and opened it eagerly at the bookmarked page. His mother was bright and young and beautiful, standing next to a portly, walrus-like man, and it ached to look at her smile. 

“What brought this on?” Snape demanded, folding his arms and glaring at Harry. “It isn’t like you to be introspective.”

Harry shrugged. He had not seen the Dursleys since that fateful summer. Dumbledore was dead. He loved Voldemort and he was beginning to suspect that they had a difficult, uphill task ahead to put Abraxas Malfoy away from Voldemort’s nightmares. Ron and Hermione were busy with their lives. There was a war. Ginny was having an affair with Scamander. 

“I know. You are planning something foolish and dangerous,” Snape accused him. 

“I am not,” Harry reassured him. He decided to confess his motives before Snape went off on a paranoid fact-finding mission. “I only came to look for photographs of Abraxas and Riddle. I was curious.” 

Snape sat across him and asked carefully, “Can you learn to keep your mind shut?” 

“Yes,” Harry said confidently. He was beginning to be better at it, he felt. He would eventually be able to keep his mind shut, from most people, though it wasn’t most people who wanted to run amok in his mind.

—-

Narcissa’s lips were pressed together in disapproval as she led Harry and Snape through the long, opulently decorated corridors of Malfoy Manor. 

“Are you certain?” she asked Snape again. 

“He will be quiet,” Snape assured her. “Don’t fret, Cissy.”

Harry was more concerned about her. Would she run to her husband or sister to give this away? Snape seemed sure of her silence, because Snape did not take risks like this without making certain of his own safety. At least, Harry hoped that was the case. 

She left them at a large set of double doors.

“It was her hobby,” Snape said quietly, opening the doors and leading Harry in. “She was an excellent amateur photographer.”

Eloise had been an excellent photographer, Harry agreed, as he took in the framed photographs hung neatly on the walls. A casual observer might at first glance only notice that the two men in the photographs were friendly. Eloise had clues captured though, in how Abraxas’s bright, blue eyes were shining in happiness when he looked at Riddle, and in the wistfulness on Riddle’s face when he watched Abraxas. She had catalogued them from their twenties to what looked like their fifties. 

Harry walked to a photograph of Abraxas on a black mare, on an open field. Riddle was leaning against a fence-post, jauntily postured, looking unexpectedly Muggle in shirt-sleeves and braces, and dark pinstriped trousers, his shoulders thrust back and his hands in his pockets. He had an open smile of appreciation on his face, as he watched Abraxas. 

“This was Morgause,” Snape pointed out. “She was Abraxas’s favourite mare. He was an excellent equestrian.” 

“These aren’t wizarding photographs.”

“The story goes that the Dark Lord gave her her first camera and rolls of film, as a wedding gift. She did not choose to take wizarding photographs,” Snape replied. “Nobody knows why.”

Harry walked to the last photograph framed. He knew, when he saw the bier, what it was depicting. There was a man wearing black robes, thin and frail, knelt by the bier, his head bowed and his hands clasped as if in supplication. 

“He could not attend the funeral. The Aurors were hunting him,” Snape said. “He had to wait until the official ceremony was over, until only family was left.” 

“He was cruel,” Harry said softly, looking at the broken man in the photograph. “Why was he so cruel?”

“He hadn’t been always so. Some said the drugs addled his mind. Others said it was the Black blood in him. His mother was a Black. Yet others said his love warped him. I think it was only hot-headedness. He was impulsive when it came to the Dark Lord, especially as they advanced in years. I know you are drawing comparisons to Draco, but Abraxas Malfoy was nothing like him.” Snape shrugged as if at a loss to explain. “He was a rather exceptional man, all said and done. I suspect the Dark Lord has a tendency to be drawn to such men.” Here he cut a careful glance at Harry. “Exceptional men with impulsive temperaments and foolish, hotheaded plans.”

“Thank you for calling me exceptional,” Harry said bashfully. “I don’t know what to say.” 

“You were exceptionally pliable. Surely the Headmaster’s attention should have told you that,” Snape muttered.

“I think I am less impulsive when it comes to him,” Harry continued, overlooking that with little effort. “I am always so afraid that I would end up being like this man,” Harry nodded at the photographs.

“You are nothing at all like Abraxas Malfoy,” Snape said wryly, sounding half-amused and half-infuriated at the comparison. Harry could tell that Snape had liked the dead man. Why? Harry, from all the stories he had heard, could not find anything likable. 

“Did you know him well?” 

Snape nodded. “I was one of his finds. He scouted for talent at the schools. He was really good at it. He could be kind and gracious, when he chose to be. He knew my mother.” 

Snape glared at Harry then. 

For a moment, Harry wondered what that was about, before he remembered Voldemort’s rambling on about Abraxas fucking Snape’s mother. 

“She coached him to play Gobstones. He was fond of games. He was one of those rich gentlemen who didn’t have to make a living, so he was bored out of his head most of his life. Perhaps it was that which led him to be heavily involved with the Dark Lord’s cause. Mind you, the rumours in the pure-blood circles go that he was the Dark Lord’s cause, especially in the latter part of their life.”

“How did it end up with his suicide, if they really liked each other?”

“Nobody knows, Potter. They had a great falling out during the annual Christmas party that year. Abraxas had returned from a Board of Governors meetings at Hogwarts in high temper. Some say the Headmaster had told him something which had set him off. In any case, Abraxas was in a fierce temper during the party. There were two parties, as usual, one after the other. The first was for the public and Abraxas hosted it. The second was only for the Death Eaters and our sympathisers, and the Dark Lord hosted it. Abraxas came to the second one with his wife. The Dark Lord was not pleased. Eloise was frightened, but Lucius intervened and managed to send her away. Poor thing. The Dark Lord would not have hurt her, mind you. He treated her well, gave her little gifts every now and then, Obliviated her whenever he needed to, and she was fond of him in her own way. At the party, Abraxas dared the Dark Lord to throw a Cruciatus at him. Back then, the Dark Lord rarely used the Unforgivables outside combat. So we were worried when Abraxas went on and on about how the Dark Lord could not throw the curse at him. The Dark Lord tried to shift the conversation to other matters, but Abraxas was more Black than Malfoy that night. He cast the Cruciatus on the Dark Lord, but in his rage he had forgotten the Dark Lord’s sharp reflexes. He waited, fuming, expecting the Dark Lord to cast the same curse, but the Dark Lord only laughed and cast an Expelliarmus, saying that he would keep Abraxas’s wand until Abraxas had ceased his tantrum.”

“Wow!” Harry exclaimed. “It must have made Abraxas angrier!” 

“Some of the Inner Circle counselled the Dark Lord to make peace with Abraxas. Black blood is volatile, they told him. He laughed and said that he had known Abraxas for years, and that it was only a minor disagreement.” 

Snape sighed, and continued, “We are often told in Slytherin that you should never fuck a Black. Perhaps the Dark Lord should have heeded that warning. On New Year’s Eve, I was summoned by Evan Rosier to arrange flowers for Abraxas’s funeral. It was winter and there were no white tulips to be found. The Dark Lord insisted on them, saying that Abraxas had once asked that white tulips be used for his funeral. He shut himself up in Abraxas’s room after the funeral. Well, it had been their room, I suppose. It was one of those known secrets nobody spoke about. When he emerged, he was listless and pale, as translucent as a ghost, and made no objection when Lucius asked him to relocate to France for a few months. He returned next year and nothing was ever the same again.”

Harry wondered if that had been what finally paved the way to Voldemort, from Riddle. Was the dichotomy only in his mind or was it genuine? He considered them different, one evolved from the other, and he remembered a passage that had resonated while idly leafing through one of Voldemort's books. 

When he returned that night, he made his way to the bookcases and looked for that well-thumbed copy of The Origin of Species. As he opened the book and searched for the passage, he felt Voldemort leaning to look over his shoulder, curious. He found it finally, and he traced the words in deep thought.

_“Thus, from the war of nature, from famine and death, the most exalted object which we are capable of conceiving, namely, the production of the higher animals, directly follows. There is grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed into a few forms or into one; and that, whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved.”_

Yet the evolution Harry pondered was not necessarily wonderful or beautiful, not necessarily the production of a higher animal. Voldemort was obsessed with prophecies and had not exhibited the least moral compunction about murder. Perhaps so had Riddle. Perhaps, after the first kill, he had never killed with his heart. Who could say? Abraxas had spent a lifetime learning Riddle, but he was dead. Dumbledore had learned Riddle and Voldemort both, but Harry had never heard his theories about the dichotomy. And Harry suspected that Darwin's theory of evolution was not something Dumbledore might have taken as a research reference. Dumbledore liked to believe in goodness inherent, and the theory of evolution did not have that as a root concept. 

"Evolution?" Voldemort asked. "I had not taken you to be interested in the natural sciences."

"How would I know what I am interested in?" Harry retorted. "Hardly as if I have had the time to explore." 

"True. Evolution?" Voldemort asked again. "Only, if you are interested, I believe there are better introductions."

"My interest was practical," Harry replied quickly, before Voldemort could dump a pile of books on him. Sometimes, the man was a tad too keen on recommending books. Still, if not for Hermione's enthusiastic discussions about the books she had read, and Voldemort's habit of leaving half-read books strewn around the room, Harry might never have half the knowledge of the world he did. Curiosity was a powerful motivator. While he had never wanted to read for reading's sake, curiosity spurred him on when he saw books lying open. He had become familiar with eclectic subjects, ranging from evolution to phrenology, because of Voldemort's reading interests. 

"Why were you reading the book?" Harry asked then, curious. 

"It is an old companion," Voldemort replied. He hesitated then before reaching across to gently touch the embossed letters on the cover. "We have little occasion or reason to speak of my history, and you know almost all of it from Dumbledore. In my youth, I was greatly influenced by Darwin's ideas. Survival of the fittest and the ranking of intelligence and strength over fairness appealed to me."

Harry remembered the ghost in the Diary who had spoken of power, who had spoken so boldly that there existed neither good nor evil. For the first time, he imagined an orphan craving to understand the world, and reading the great philosophical works of his time in a bid to comprehend. Somehow, all the Pensieve memories and all the recollections he had heard from others had not prepared him to see the boy who had managed to selectively educate himself. Harry was reminded of what Hermione had said about Martin Luther and the Pope. Did Voldemort like to think that he was stripping away ignorance from the common man through his radicalism and extremism? Did he imagine the Ministry, or perhaps even Dumbledore, to be the oppressive Catholic Church who insisted on having the Holy Mass in a language only the cream of the society could understand, while the others were condemned to ignorance and blind faith?

"Why were you reading the book? Practical interest? I cannot fathom what in our dreary days could stir a practical interest in Darwin's theory of evolution."

"It won't make sense to you even if I tried to explain," Harry assured him, putting the book away. "Never mind. Sex?"

"Sex as avoidance? Curiouser and curiouser," Voldemort remarked, gazing at him thoughtfully. 

"Alice in Wonderland?" Harry asked, laughing, thrilled that he could place the reference, and he had Hermione to thank for that. It was one of her favourite phrases.

"Aren't you a well-read literate? You are full of surprises today," Voldemort answered, a smile lurking at the corners of his lips. 

Harry wanted to draw that smile into fullness, so he replied, "It is one of my many qualities. I can conjure rabbits out of hats too." 

He succeeded, because that elicited him a full laugh, before Voldemort cupped his face and kissed him.  
—-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! :) I am sorry for the off-canonness of the story, but I am aiming to be internally consistent if that makes it any better.


	25. What would Freud say?

“She is crazy,” Harry told Ron, as they walked together outside the barracks. 

Ron looked sharp and smart in his crimson Auror training robes. Harry was jealous of him. It was strange, Harry reflected, how Ron found reasons to be jealous of Harry when Ron always had the better deal of it. Look at him, really - he was accepted to the Aurors, and his application had been accelerated because of the war, and he was being trained at Scarborough by some of the best. He was engaged to Hermione Granger, the smartest of their generation. He had the best family anyone could have. What could he envy Harry for? 

“I can only imagine!” Ron said with an exaggerated shudder. “Fred and George think she must have gone on about Sirius all the time.”

“She is crazy and professional,” Harry said. “She was all about the field-work when we went in. Later, she was too busy bleeding to say much.”

“You should have left her to die, like Snape said,” Ron commented. “Really, Harry, put that saviour complex to rest!” 

Harry kept quiet. This was an argument he did not want to have, mainly because he did not know what to say. Ron was right. 

“How is You Know Who treating you? Percy says he has left you mostly alone at the meetings.”

“Well, Kingsley and Remus handle the Order affairs,” Harry said. “I am not really required for the meetings, except when Fudge wants me there. They mostly talk about how many number of men should be stationed where. Voldemort is too busy with all of that to actually pay attention to tormenting me, I guess.”

“Good for you,” Ron said fiercely. “You shouldn’t be there in the first place. I don’t know what Dumbledore was about in dragging you along into this war, Harry. There was no prophecy. There was no good reason to get you involved at all. Mum’s furious. Hermione says Dumbledore must have done it for the right reasons. You know Hermione. She likes to believe in authority figures.”

“How is her research going?”

“Well, they tried to give her some work on ley lines. She refused to take it on and went back to the ciphers. She thinks it is more important to save people than to research old magic. I am a bit concerned about her. She really isn’t cut out for war. The ley lines would have been a good thing.”

“Draco Malfoy was researching them,” Harry remembered, from what Lucius Malfoy had once said. “It sounded like a stressful job.”

“No wonder why he got out and moved into Auror training,” Ron said wryly. “It must be pretty bad if he is willing to do leg-work.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed. “Aurors? Won’t his father prefer him to do whatever training Death Eaters do?”

“See, that is exactly the thing. Fudge and You Know Who cut a deal. It was all on the thing you signed, apparently. You Know Who agreed to the whole business because there is a binding, unbreakable vow that says the Aurors will be his at the end of the war, and that they will never, ever oppose him. Fudge signed over the country to save it from Grindelwald. Our oath of office, when we finish training, was revised to add in some stuff related to this.” 

“I didn’t read the documents. I signed because Dumbledore signed.”

“Dumbledore and the lawyers may be the only people who read them. And Percy. Never forget Percy.”

Ron then spoke again, “Harry, do you want to ask Remus or Kingsley if you can get out here? The training is useful. You are great at Defence, but they teach us a lot more.”

“I can ask. I would love to!” Harry said enthusiastically, finally getting a sense of purpose. The adventure with Bellatrix had been useful for the war, but he had not done much except let Voldemort possess him. He wanted to help. If even Draco Malfoy was involved in the defences of their country, then Harry damned well wanted to be there too. 

—-

“You will have to ask You Know Who,” Kingsley said uncomfortably. “I really wish I could do something about it, Harry, but I am afraid he has complete legal rights over you, as a result of your…agreement.”

—-

“You are preoccupied,” Voldemort remarked, looking up from Skeeter’s biography of Dumbledore. He had a bunch of books piled up on his desk, all related to the lore of the Elder Wand. It made Harry uncomfortable. It made him think of the inevitability that had been stamped on Dumbledore’s features, it made him think of the calm acceptance of death that had been on Bellatrix’s face when she had faced that wand. 

“I wish to join the Aurors,” Harry said. “Kingsley tells me that I have to ask you first.”

Voldemort said, “I need you to go to Plymouth. The lines must hold. We cannot lose the harbour.”

Plymouth. That was where Remus was, defending, with the rest of the Order. Bill would be there. And Tonks. Mad-Eye too. They had lost Brighton. It had been a savage rout. 

“What should I do?” 

“Go there. Be seen,” Voldemort explained, leaning back in his chair. “It will matter to those on the front-lines.”

Harry did not want to be a figurehead. He wasn’t any good at it, unlike Dumbledore who had had charisma in spades. He wanted to fight, with the rest of them. If Ron was fighting, if Neville was fighting, he needed to be there too. Well, first he would have to get to Plymouth. He could then convince the Order.

Voldemort rose to his feet then, and approached him. “It is not easy being a symbol, Harry,” he said quietly. “You are one, nevertheless. To many who followed Dumbledore, after Canterbury, you have become the embodiment of British resistance.”

“I want to fight. Everyone else is fighting.”

“You can’t. It was one of the terms of our armistice. You will not take the field until I am defeated or wounded. Fudge wanted you as Britain’s last defence.”

Harry stared at Voldemort, aghast at how easily the man had spoken of possible defeat. The wand was powerful enough to get even Voldemort to acknowledge the probability of losing this war. 

“I am nearly done here. I could take you shooting,” Voldemort offered. 

That was another thing. Ever since the hallucination, Voldemort had treated Harry carefully. It had been three weeks. While Harry loved Voldemort fucking him the way he liked, until he was nearly sobbing from the wracking pleasure, he was beginning to be unnerved by Voldemort treating him like some sort of fragile being. Hell, Voldemort had not been rough or careless even before that, so the amplification of courtesy was beginning to veer into the land of sugariness. Voldemort had taken him to the Isle of Man multiple times, and conjured clay pigeons patiently as Harry practised. He had bought Harry new oven mitts, for God’s sake. Harry wondered if there was something wrong with him that he found fault with Voldemort treating him so carefully. 

“I think I’d like to stay in tonight,” Harry said distractedly, his thoughts still on Voldemort’s behaviour.

“A bath and then a lengthy episode of sex,” Voldemort declared.

Sex was beginning to be the best avoidance technique. Harry suppressed a frown. The cock-sucking sounded great, really, but what was going on? He was not sensitive like Snape. He did not need to pampered and pampered for what had happened weeks ago. 

“Harry?” 

“It sounds wonderful,” he said honestly, and made for the bath. 

He had to think this through carefully, he knew. Voldemort’s stubbornness was worse than his own, once his mind was made up about something. No, he needed to either figure out the real reason and try to talk to the man, or surprise the man out of this weirdness. 

His thoughts were swept away when Voldemort knelt before him and took his cock in a warm, wet mouth, laving him with precise, well-spaced strokes of tongue. This was different too. Harry gripped the man’s neck and steadied himself. It was in vain that he tried to make himself last. Voldemort was too good at making him lose control. He came mewling in pleasure and slumped back against the wall. Voldemort laughed and came to steady him. Harry made to reciprocate, but Voldemort gently took his hand away and said, “No, no. I want to make you come again, later, in bed, with my cock deep in you.” 

Harry could tell the difference between Voldemort focussed on giving pleasure and Voldemort lustfully close to losing control. The sex of the last few days had been controlled and precise, perfectly designed to be highly pleasurable for Harry. He had been left to lie there panting and awkward afterwards, while Voldemort finished himself deep inside Harry with efficient, quick thrusts. 

God. He was too young to be analyzing their sex life with this level of meticulousness. Harry did not think that Ron had to deal with this sort of thing. Nobody probably did. Then again, nobody got sex the way Harry did either. It was all worth fixing. 

——

“Ah, Harry, how have you been?” Flitwick asked when Harry joined him for breakfast at Hogwarts. 

The table was empty but for the two of them. Harry was not surprised. Hagrid had been drinking his meals. Snape was probably closeted amongst his noxious fumes and cauldrons. McGonagall never woke up before ten if she did not have to teach. Trelawney did not often come down from her tower and drug-induced visions. All that camphor must have permanently addled her by now. 

“I came here to think,” Harry told Flitwick. “I have to go to Plymouth soon, but I wanted to spend the morning here.”

“Hogwarts is the ideal place to reflect and think,” Flitwick told him cheerfully. “Restful. Quiet.”

At the moment, Snape strode in, scowling as always, and snatched a piece of toast off Flitwick’s plate before storming away. 

“Mostly,” Flitwick said apologetically. 

“I am used to that,” Harry said, laughing. “He does seem to be in a marginally better mood. Taught me the basics of Occlumency without killing us both.”

“He keeps carping on about Fawkes trilling at him all hours of the day, but I am beginning to think the trilling is cheering him up despite his strident complaining,” Flitwick noted. “He is summoned nearly every day now, and he does not seem to be worse off. I also think he has stopped the cutting.”

“Snape turning level. Scary,” Harry remarked. So Voldemort’s last ditch attempt in breaking the shields had helped, in a manner. 

“I hope he has not fallen in love,” Flitwick said placidly. “After Lily Evans and Albus Dumbledore, I shudder to think of who he might set his sights upon next. He does look rather blissed out when he returns from his summons.” 

“No way!” Harry said, laughing. “Don’t let Snape hear that. Really, Professor, you shouldn’t have put that picture in my head. Knowing he obsessed over my Mum was bad enough.” 

“Filius, Harry,” Flitwick said seriously. “If we are discussing such scandalous matters over breakfast, you had best call me Filius.”

“Filius,” Harry said awkwardly. 

“Good, good. Now, a walk by the Lake is ideal for a young man with many cares upon his noble heart.”

Harry did not what to reply to that. Noble heart? His greatest care right then was about Voldemort’s newfound belief that Harry needed to be treated like some fragile doll. 

“I hope you know that I can give you my thoughts should you need a second opinion.”

“I know. Thank you.”

——

Harry took a walk around the periphery of the lake but gave up when he realized that he was no clearer on the matter bothering him. He made to turn his path towards the gates. Remus was expecting him for lunch. Then he gulped and turned his steps back to the school. He hurried through the halls and the corridors, making his way to the dungeons. 

“Potter?” Snape asked curiously, stepping back to let him into the classroom. “I have a lot of brewing to do for the Dark Lord’s war. What is it?” 

Fawkes was there, the only spark of brightness amongst the dismal surround. 

“It isn’t just his war now,” Harry corrected him, moving to pet the phoenix. “And Flitwick thinks you look blissed out when you return from your meetings.” 

“You are the one bending over for him,” Snape muttered. “I have never been that foolish. Even Bella is not that mad.”

“It has been a mess after the wormwood,” Harry said miserably. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t talk to anybody else. I am out of ideas to fix this.”

Snape looked at him with pity for an instant before snapping, “Don’t stand around moping then. Play it by the ear. Isn’t that what you always do? Trust your heart etcetera. I would give you a lemon drop, but I haven’t got any.“

Harry stared at him, trying to sort out if Snape had meant it seriously. He shrugged. It did not matter. He could not ask Snape. He could not ask anyone else about how to sort this out. Besides, Snape was sort of right. He had always played it by the ear.

He knew, vaguely, that Voldemort must have already given him the clue. Voldemort was rarely opaque about what he wanted in the relationship or in bed. Harry chewed his lip, casting his mind over the past. He frowned when he remembered an anecdote Voldemort had mentioned briefly during that period. 

—-

He did his rounds of Plymouth and cheerfully mingled with the Aurors and the Order members stationed there. He spoke with fretting matronly women and labourers that worked the dock-yards. He was not Dumbledore, but he managed his best to sound and speak like him.

“You really are like him,” Remus said fondly. 

“Yes,” Mad-Eye said thoughtfully. “I know they compare you to Lily and James, but you’ve got more of Dumbledore in you.” 

Harry shrugged and thanked them for saying so. Dumbledore, Voldemort and Petunia Dursley had been the greatest influences in his life. He was not sure that it was exactly a good thing to have them as influences. He was sure that Freud would have had plenty to say about that. He frowned. Voldemort had a few volumes on Freudian theory, though the man claimed that it was all exaggerated nonsense about sexuality and the _Id_. Harry was curious and wanted to find out more. The last time he had asked Voldemort about it, he had found himself holding William James's _The Principles of Psychology_. Oh, well, Voldemort did have a fondness for the Americans. It was up to Harry to go and investigate Freud all by himself, if he wanted to know more. And he did want to know more. He had heard Freud's name during so many conversations with Hermione. If she was an admirer, Freud must have done something right. She had said, often, that much of Harry's behaviour was rooted in childhood issues explored deeply in Freudian theory. Some poor doctoral student could well receive his dissertation in psychology using Harry as a case-study, he supposed. He put that morbid thought out of his head and decided to return home. 

—-


	26. We have reached the fiftieth

“How was your day?” Voldemort asked when he returned. 

“Hello,” Harry greeted him and went to kiss him. Voldemort took control of the kiss, languidly licking at Harry’s tongue until Harry felt like melting. He pulled back. Voldemort looked at him curiously. 

“I want sex,” Harry said, trying not to blush as Voldemort’s eyes widened in surprise at the forwardness of his declaration. 

“Of course,” Voldemort agreed. “Do you wish to be taken in our bed or perhaps against the desk? I think you might enjoy the desk a great deal. Only, let me add a few cushioning charms to ensure your comfort.”

“No, no,” Harry said, trying to sound firm and failing, trying to hide his arousal at the words and failing. Voldemort was beginning to look concerned. “I want to take you.” 

Voldemort looked truly surprised, but he nodded and said, “How would you like to have me?” 

Harry understood the surprise. They had only switched twice in their eventful sex life. The one time Voldemort had brought it up after that, following the wormwood incident, Harry had not followed through. Voldemort must have decided to not bring it up again afterwards, knowing Harry’s preferences. Harry truly liked it the other way around, but he was beginning to see that Voldemort needed to be shown Harry’s attraction to him after the whole fiasco with the wormwood. He was not sure how the business had led to Voldemort losing his usually level-headed approach to their relationship. It did not matter. Harry was going to fix it. Somehow.

“Quietly,” Harry said. “Stop trying to guess what I want. Let me enjoy your body.” 

There, he had said it. He felt all adult. Voldemort looked suspicious. Harry asked him, “When do you have your next meeting?” 

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Voldemort replied, glancing over at his map. “At quarter past three, in Croydon. Why?” 

“Good,” Harry said. “Now take your clothes off.” 

Voldemort nodded and made for the bed. Harry grabbed his wrist and shook his head. 

“On the carpet?” Voldemort asked. Harry repeated, “Quietly.” 

They stared at each other for a moment before Voldemort nodded and took his robe off. Harry stepped close and placed his hand around Voldemort’s neck. He felt the man leaning down for a kiss, but he withdrew and began tracing small circles at the nape of the neck. Voldemort made a noise of impatience but stayed still as Harry slid his hands over the planes of his shoulders. 

“I could look at you for hours,” Harry said truthfully. 

“I am not Riddle,” Voldemort snapped, though he stood still as Harry explored him with firm, strong hands. 

“No, you aren’t,” Harry agreed. “Thank God for that. You are completely mine to love.”

Voldemort stopped leaning away from Harry’s touch then. Harry breathed a sigh of relief and closed the distance between them with a kiss. 

“I am going to pleasure you again and again, until you understand what I am trying to do.”

“Fornication does not solve anything,” Voldemort complained half-heartedly, though the cautious optimism in his eyes gave him away.

“In our case, it usually does,” Harry reminded him. “Now conjure a mirror and throw your cushioning charms on the carpet.” 

Voldemort did that easily and looked at Harry. Harry turned him around to face the mirror and Voldemort looked away. 

“No, look at you,” Harry said quietly. “I want you to see what I see.” 

“I can see,” Voldemort replied. “I find no great pleasure in the sight. I would rather be looking at you.” 

“Well, could you be quiet? We are doing it the way I want,” Harry cut him off. He knelt before Voldemort and gripped his waist. “Now spread your legs.” 

Harry began kissing and caressing his way up from the feet. He had not thought, in his wildest imaginings, that he would find the arch of a foot erotic. He wondered how it might feel to have those toes kneading his back. He lifted a foot and drew a toe into his mouth. God, he had a foot kink he had never been aware of until then, and half of that was definitely because of the soft, sharp gasps that escaped Voldemort. He reached up to draw a finger along the taut abdomen, tracing the concavity of it. He was fascinated by Voldemort’s body from where he knelt - all sharp lines and clean angles, with a filigree of blood vessels standing out against pale skin here and there. He took his time, learning each inch of skin with tongue and fingers. He indulged until he felt Voldemort’s thighs trembling to keep balance. He took pity and pulled him down. Voldemort sighed and leaned in for a kiss. Harry smiled and joined their lips with the ease born of experience. 

Then he shifted behind the man, traced the length of the long spine with his index finger, and asked, “Can you stay balanced? I want to take you like this.” 

Voldemort nodded and leaned backward slightly, to press his head against Harry’s neck. It felt so intimate and right, to Harry, as they knelt there, with Voldemort’s knees parted wide so that he was at Harry’s height. Harry brought a hand over Voldemort’s breast, to hold him close, and placed another at the man’s hip. 

“Cast that spell,” he told Voldemort. “I don’t have my wand close.”

When he took Voldemort, the man’s eyes were fixed on the mirror, wide and blown in arousal, his lips were parted, and his hands came to wrap themselves around Harry’s in earnest. The position allowed little flexibility to Voldemort to control their pace and Harry delighted in that. It was difficult enough to last without Voldemort playing his usual tricks on Harry’s body. Harry took a sharp breath and surged in deeper. Voldemort screamed in pleasure. Harry thought he would never fail to be surprised by how vocal his partner became when truly surrendered to pleasure. Voldemort was quiet usually, and the starkness of the difference was alluring. Harry wondered if this was what the sailor had done, if the well-built Edmond Dantes look-alike had fucked Riddle deep like this, hitting the prostrate on each thrust. Harry brought his hand to Voldemort’s cock, but he decided against it. Voldemort was going to come from the stimulation alone, he was sure. He wanted to see that. He used the new techniques Snape had taught him to clear his mind, and clung on desperately to his determination to see Voldemort break first. Voldemort threw his head back against Harry’s shoulder then, mouth open in a soundless gasp, and convulsed against him. The cushioning charms and Harry’s excellent balance helped them stay upright. Harry let go then, and let his body take what it needed from the trembling form against him. They lost their balance as Harry came, and they collapsed in a pile of limbs on the carpet. 

“Are you all right?” Harry asked. 

“I can’t say.” Voldemort laughed, still trembling. “Wherever did you learn to fuck like that? Could you indulge me again? I want more.” 

“Oh, seeing you undone inspires my performance,” Harry told him seriously. “Let us move to the bed for the next round.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t,” Voldemort said, clutching his side and trying to sit up in vain. “I will go mad.”

“That is an acceptable outcome,” Harry told him, rising to his feet unsteadily and then pulling Voldemort up. “We can be mad together. Screw Grindelwald.”

Voldemort laughed. Harry had never heard the man laugh so much in a single day. Feeling proud of himself, he pushed Voldemort down on the bed and took his place above the prone body. Voldemort seemed remarkably unguarded, because he reached up to trace the mark on Harry without the usual self-consciousness. 

“What was going on the last three weeks?” Harry asked. “I didn’t know what to make of it.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I wanted you to forget that had happened. I thought you would start being resentful, because of what was my past. I was afraid you would start down a trajectory similar to his, breaking me because you had finally understood the power I have given you over me. It seems rather foolish in retrospect. You are nothing like him, and you are remarkably accepting of the whole mess,” Voldemort replied in an unusually self-deprecatory tone.

Harry watched him carefully. Earlier, the division in his mind between Voldemort and Riddle had helped Harry to get over the jealousy. Now, though, now he did not need that pretence any longer to sleep in peace. A dead man did not matter, because he was dead. 

“There isn’t a mess,” Harry said, picking his words with care. “You may think every now and then that there is one. I think you have dealt with it and moved on mostly. As for the other matter, allow me to tell you what a clever man once told me. You have only given me the power you have chosen to give me. It is my power only as long as you choose to give me.”

“You have butchered my words,” Voldemort complained, though the sparkle in his eyes spoke of a strange sort of peace. 

“It could be worse. I could quote Albus Dumbledore,” Harry threatened. 

Voldemort laughed and kissed him again, leisurely. 

“Can you bring up your legs to my shoulders?” Harry asked. “I have seen that in one magazine and I want to try it out. Do real people even do that?”

“Real people do a great many things that would surprise you,” Voldemort replied. “If you care to try that out, first start fucking me like this and then lift my legs to your shoulders.”

“You have done this before,” Harry muttered. 

“Yes, it is one of my favourite positions,” Voldemort replied. “The penetration and the fullness are delightful because of the angle.”

“Is there anything you haven’t done? Never mind. Don’t tell me! I will find out for myself one day.” 

When he began fucking Voldemort again, they stared at each other for a long moment before Voldemort’s eyes slid up into his head from the sensation. Harry lifted the legs around his waist up to his shoulders. He slid in deeper, deeper than he had before. Wow, the angle of penetration was amazing. The cries falling from Voldemort’s lips were incoherent. Harry lifted the legs on his shoulders up higher, until the angle was nearly perpendicular, and with great force of mind, which might have impressed Snape, he focussed on Voldemort’s shields. They were barely there, melting under the pleasure. Voldemort opened to him, and the mind that held him was similar to his own, and Harry found himself ensconced in blazing warmth physically and mentally. The mark on Harry’s torso was warm too, and he saw the holly and the yew on his skin entwining and coiling in his mind’s eye, or was it in Voldemort’s? He willed them to come, or perhaps Voldemort did; it did not matter for they crashed together. 

It was dark and warm, it was safe and there was only the music of their pulse, and then Voldemort was saying, “You are welcome to stay in my arse. Get out of my mind though. You could get trapped there.”

It was not a bad place to get trapped in, Harry reflected. Voldemort laughed and there was amusement surrounding his mind whole and it was very confusing. Then he was thrown out.

“You could have been nicer,” Harry muttered. He moved his head to rest over Voldemort’s heart and let the music soothe him back into his post-coital lassitude.

“When I learned the arts of the mind, I hadn’t considered them a sex-aid. Nicer had not been necessary.” 

Voldemort’s voice was hoarse from the screaming and Harry found it incredibly arousing. 

“No,” Voldemort said, sharply tapping him on the shoulder. 

“Yes. You don’t have a meeting until the afternoon. You said the cure to your problems is a young man’s cock. So you are going to be stuffed with one until you can’t walk.”

Voldemort’s eyes flared in pleasure. “I don’t disagree at all. However, I am not young. The least you could do before another round of this is to get me some cheese on toast,” he demanded. 

Harry laughed and said happily, “No cheese on toast. I am going to cook a Welsh rabbit for you. Only the finest for you.”

“I don’t know where you are going to find a rabbit in London,” Voldemort said sleepily. “I haven’t eaten a rabbit before, except when I was possessing a snake, but that doesn’t count.”

“Never fucked a man from Wales, then?” 

“One. Dylan. A poet from Swansea,” Voldemort murmured. “For a few days in the first summer after the war. I was studying ancient Celtic literature at Cardiff during the time. He went on about gloom and doom from breakfast to supper. He was also dark and handsome, in a way that adolescent girls find attractive. He drank half his meals and smoked the other half. Not a man who cooked rabbits.” 

“Well, I will be back with your Welsh rabbit,” Harry said, pressing a kiss to Voldemort’s shoulder. He pushed the bear fur blankets up to cover the man. Then he threw on Voldemort’s discarded robe and made for the kitchen.

It was a hearty dish. Harry had picked it up from watching the cookery show on television when the Dursleys had been away to Brighton on vacation. He set to making the sauce from Cheddar and added spices to season the dish. Onions. He would not add it to the dish if it was only for himself, but he had noticed that Voldemort liked the flavour of onions. Then he poured the sauce over the toast. 

Voldemort walked in then, wrapped in a fur blanket. He made a beeline for the table just as Harry placed the dish there.

“That robe suits you,” Voldemort said distractedly, leaning in to smell the dish. His face broke into a smile when he caught the pungent aroma of onions. “You noticed.”

“Only recently,” Harry replied fondly.

It was a good meal. They were relaxed and sleepy, unguarded in their conversation and in unusually high spirits. It was not going to last, Harry knew. Still, he had fixed what he had set out to fix. 

“The wand is important,” Voldemort was saying thoughtfully. “It is not the most important concern, though. The key is the touchstone he has brought with him. It links his magic to his native soil, and he is drawing upon ancient magic there. It must be how he escaped the prison. I know enough about it to speculate on its purpose, but I don’t know how to break it yet.”

“You will figure it out,” Harry said confidently. “We haven’t run out of time. Remus is managing in Plymouth and the rest of the lines have held so far.”

“It is patriotism,” Voldemort said. “Grindelwald’s magic is made strong by his land because of his love for his country. I can’t understand it. I can’t destroy what I can’t understand. I put the question to my Inner Circle, but there doesn’t seem to be a single patriot amongst them. You wouldn’t happen to be a patriot, would you?”

“No, I was mentored by Albus Dumbledore,” Harry said, laughing. “There is Minerva McGonagall. She is very patriotic.”

“You have earned yourself the next assignment. Go find out everything about the psychology of a patriot.”

“I will try,” Harry offered. 

“I am off to take a bath,” Voldemort said, wincing as he rose to his feet. “I wasn’t as sore even after the sailor.”

Harry smiled and cleared the table. Then he walked to Voldemort and embraced the man, before letting a questing finger slip into him. It went in easily and Voldemort inhaled sharply, rocking back.

“The hero did promise another round,” Voldemort whispered, leaning forward to kiss Harry deeply. Harry slipped in another finger. He could feel the slickness wet. 

“What I want is to eat you out,” Harry told him, swirling his fingers and watching Voldemort’s composure fall. “Get on the table.” He pulled a chair and sat down. 

“In our kitchen?” Voldemort asked, sounding quite scandalised. He needed Harry’s steadying arm to sit up on the table. He took a deep breath and cast his cushioning charms before lying back, legs splayed on the arms of Harry’s chair. 

“They do call it a dining table,” Harry said, grinning. “Let me dine.”

 _Our_ kitchen. He liked the sound of that. When had Voldemort started referring to it so? Then again, they had fallen into cohabitation somehow. Voldemort did not shift away even when Harry pressed fierce kisses to the scars on his thighs. Instead he murmured in Latin phrases that made Harry blush. At some point, Harry found his head locked in by Voldemort’s legs as the man strove to impale himself on Harry’s tongue.

“Easy there,” Harry murmured, withdrawing to breathe, and stroking soothingly down the flanks. “You will hurt yourself, thrashing like this.”

Voldemort made a sound half between a groan and a sigh, and muttered, “Quite enough dillydallying.” 

He clumsily moved down to Harry’s lap and straddled him. Harry steadied him as he sunk down on Harry’s cock. It was tremendously uncoordinated, but Harry found the eroticism of it overwhelming - of Voldemort balancing himself using his firm grip on Harry’s shoulders, of the smell of him close to, of sweat and sex, of the quivering muscles that milked Harry’s cock with little in the way of rhythm. He could feel Voldemort’s breathing stutter, he could feel Voldemort’s hands slip overwhelmed by tiredness and exhaustion from their activities. The pace turned erratic and uncontrolled, and Harry found it unbearably arousing to watch Voldemort still endeavour to move up and down.

“Let me,” Harry said gently, gripping Voldemort by the waist and kissing a moan out of him. “I have you. Let me.”

“I can’t-”

Harry gripped his waist and began thrusting, as forcefully and rhythmically as he could, and Voldemort’s breath came in a sharp, jagged rush. Harry found himself cresting and wryly grinned as Voldemort whispered admonishments and exclamations of disappointment. Well, Harry’s stamina was none too impressive, he admitted, but he was improving. He kissed Voldemort and pushed the man back onto the table. Back to what he had originally planned.

Finally, after Voldemort had fallen to the bliss of Harry’s tongue, he murmured, “I think we have progressed to the fiftieth.” 

“The fiftieth?” 

_“Iucunde, tibi poema feci,  
ex quo perspiceres meum dolorem.”_

“My Latin is not good enough,” Harry said apologetically.

“I am grateful for that,” Voldemort said with a wan smile. “I wouldn’t be able to tell you that so easily otherwise.”

“I love you,” Harry said quietly, rising to press a soft kiss to Voldemort’s forehead. “Should I levitate you to bed?” 

“I am disappointed. Heroes carry their conquests,” Voldemort told him. With a lazy motion, he rose and made for the door. Harry noticed the altered gait in alarm. “Come along. Warm the bed.”

“You have bears from Canada to do that,” Harry said wryly, following him. “I can’t possibly compare.”

“You are alive. They can’t possibly compare.”

 

“Er, right. Maybe you should do something about…you are walking differently,” Harry pointed out, blushing. 

Maybe thrice in a session was too much? Harry had never taken it up the arse more than twice in a session. Did it hurt? He was always sore after intense sessions of fucking. He was grateful for Petunia’s Aspirin tablets that he had stolen during his last visit. Originally, he had intended to use them for after-Quidditch practice, but he had found them useful after a good fucking too. 

That crazy angle during their second round must have been torture on Voldemort’s body, afterwards. Harry felt guilty. 

“On the occasions that I want to be fucked, this too is a part of the experience that I enjoy,” Voldemort said distractedly, correctly spotting what bothered Harry. 

Harry decided to take him at his word. Voldemort had more experience, after all. Certainly he knew what he liked. Voldemort’s pain tolerance was higher, he knew. The man lived with fractures and nerve damage without being bothered by them. Harry still felt uncomfortable and guilty, and also possessive, seeing the altered gait.

“My favourite part is coming up,” Harry announced. “Post-sex cuddling in bed under bear furs.”

“That has its merits,” Voldemort agreed. “Luckily for you, I am no prude and won’t insist on a bath before indulging you.”

“How lucky I am!” Harry said, laughing. 

He dragged them to bed and slipped his hand between Voldemort’s legs. He felt possessive and tender both, as he slowly finger-fucked the sighing man. It was wet and open, giving in to his touch easily. He used his thumb and middle fingers to hold Voldemort open, while he used his index finger to thrust in and out. They were too exhausted to do anything, but Harry found the act of it, of being allowed to do it, of Voldemort’s passivity in lying there and letting him do it, quite empowering. Voldemort’s body began to tremble and Harry cursed himself for not remembering how sensitive those nerves might be. He brought his fingers to rest at his side and pressed a kiss of apology to his partner’s lips.

“I will need potions to restore my walking abilities,” Voldemort noted. “Cornelius shan’t be happy to see his new friend so impaired.”

“I am sorry about that,” Harry said guiltily. “I should have been more careful. Thrice was too much.”

“It was novel,” Voldemort said. “The exceptions I make for my virile, young hero.”

“Shut up,” Harry said, blushing. 

“It is true! I can feel you sloshing about in me.”

“Shut up!” Harry demanded, leaning in to kiss the man fiercely, hoping to swallow more comments about his virility before they could be voiced.

“Oh, Harry, you are easy to rile,” Voldemort replied, turning to face him, coming into Harry’s arms as if he belonged there, melting into Harry’s body heat as if he craved it, and sighing gently as he placed his cheek to Harry’s chest. 

Harry had never imagined he would want to call anyone darling before. He swallowed that impulse before he could blurt it out. 

“Tell me about the fiftieth, please,” Harry asked, the Latin still resounding in his mind, sweetly sad. “Catullus?”

“Yes. I am comfortable and do not wish to search for the courage to explain,” Voldemort said sleepily. 

“When have you lacked for courage?” Harry asked fondly, trailing his fingers in a caress over the expanse of Voldemort’s back. 

That elicited a sigh and Voldemort sat up to face him. Eyes shining in post-coital languor, he translated softly, “ _Delightful friend, I made this poem for you, from which you might discern my sorrow.”_

Harry frowned, his post-coital bliss frittering away at those words. He said firmly, “My love for you has only brought me happiness.”

“Love in excess leaves no man happiness or dignity,” Voldemort replied pensively, reaching across to interlace their fingers. “And we, being who we are, can only feel in excess.”

“What are you saying?” Harry asked quietly, worried by that proclamation he could make neither head nor tail out of. 

“You should listen more carefully,” Voldemort chided him. “I have been saying, incessantly, that I love you, and in excess.”

Harry’s sharp inhalation on hearing that must have irritated Voldemort, for he asked, “How couldn’t you have known?” 

How couldn’t he, indeed? Harry lay there, trying to assimilate that overwhelming knowledge. Then, because he was only a naive man pretending to be world-wise and mature, because all the times Voldemort had admired him, he had only been quoting Hermione, he said honesty and shamefully, “I haven’t read Alice. I haven’t read Shakespeare. I know about the Dissolution of the Monasteries and the history of the Canterbury Cathedral only because of Hermione.”

It was a terrible truth to admit, yet he felt undeserving, he felt he was cheapening what was precious with his lies of omission.

Voldemort blinked, frozen for a moment, before he shook his head wryly and muttered something about idealism and honesty. Then he said quietly, “What is there to be ashamed of? You will have all the time in the world to read and learn, to travel and live.”

Harry’s brain finally caught up with Voldemort’s proclamation of love, and he acted, reaching to cup Voldemort by the neck and pulling him down for a fierce kiss. When they parted, breathing heavily, he noticed the quick flash of discomfort on his partner’s face.

“A potion?” he suggested, worried.

“Don’t fret so,” Voldemort murmured. “I am not made of glass. I don’t prefer sadomasochism in sex, but I am not averse to passionate handling. I understand it, since I often feel it myself when handling you in a similar manner.”

Harry laughed and kissed him again, thinking of the tail. 

“I never lived down that tail,” Harry remarked, drawing slow circles with his other hand over Voldemort’s torso. 

“Next time, I should liven it up for you. Ginger before the tail,” Voldemort said sleepily. 

“Yes, please!” Harry murmured. “Only if it is here, though. I like it only when it is just the two of us. I am not…exhibitionistic. That is the word, right?”

“Yes. Very few are.”

“Are you?”

“Not intentionally,” Voldemort replied. “You know about Derrick Watson. We were often caught here and there by teachers and prefects. He was an exhibitionist. I was then a thirteen-year old who had just discovered sex.”

Harry startled. Derrick Watson, had he been the first? Wow. 

“Oh! Was he the first?”

“Yes.”

“Wow, you were ambitious. Wasn’t he two years older?” 

“He said I was easy on the eyes. I didn’t care about the whys. I only wanted sex.”

“It didn’t go on for long, did it?” Harry asked carefully. There were only a handful of Pensieve memories related to that. 

“Six months,” Voldemort replied. “I can’t say I remember correctly. It was a long time ago. He grew aware of the dangers of being a homosexual and ceased. I was aware of it too, and made sure to fuck two women for every man I fucked. I read the Ballad of Reading Gaol by Wilde during that period and fretted over the possibility of being labelled as a shirt-lifter. Outside the right circles, the label held grave consequences in both the worlds. Filius Flitwick caught us once. He took me aside later, telling me that I had to be more careful, that as a scholarship student I could afford to take no risks.”

“Dumbledore knew that you didn’t stop,” Harry pointed out quietly. “He never turned you in for that.”

“It wasn’t that straight-forward,” Voldemort said. “I had blackmail material over most of the men or women who might have wanted to turn me in. I knew about several students Dumbledore had brought to Hogwarts, of werewolf or vampire blood, which would have caused a severe ruckus with the board had they known. Even if Dumbledore had been willing to risk that, he could not have obtained the support of Headmaster Dippet or of my Head of House, Horace Slughorn.” 

Riddle had been systematic in ensuring his safety. Harry wondered how he might have fared in those times. He shrugged. He would have just stayed with women and not encountered the problem at all.

He wondered why Abraxas had come to Riddle after his marriage. He was fairly sure that they had known of each other’s interest long before that. He had seen the photographs, he had seen the memories, he had heard enough from various sources - they had been interested in each other long before they had actually fucked. Why had Abraxas waited until marriage? 

“Unless he wanted a reason to throw people off the scent?” he murmured. 

“Fallacy,” Voldemort remarked. “Those who knew had known before. Maybe he wanted to see how low I would sink, to see if I would still agree after he had come to me fresh from fucking the lady.”

“That is a mistake,” Harry said gently, turning to face Voldemort and cupping his face. “He had never fucked her.”

“Harry, Lucius is walking, talking proof that they fucked.”

“He is walking, talking proof that Abraxas couldn’t get it up even for making her pregnant and that St. Mungo’s did it for him.” 

Voldemort stared at him, no doubt waiting for him to explain how he knew such a fact. Harry shrugged and said, “I had been curious enough to look for answers.”

He had not noticed how great and ever-present a burden had lingered in Voldemort’s gaze before it vanished that instant. Oh, had he spent all these years believing that Abraxas had fucked his wife throughout their marriage? Why had Abraxas never told him the truth? 

“All right?” Harry asked gently, reaching across to touch Voldemort’s wrist.

“The process of making soap is called saponifaction. It is a fascinating process, Harry. The oils used in its making are called triglycerides, as they contain three acid molecules and one glycerol molecule. Lye is a strong alkali. When they are combined, we obtain soap salts, and glycerol. Which do you think has a greater influence on the soap: the oils or the lye?”

“The lye,” Harry guessed.

“Indeed. I used to make my soaps from sodium hydroxide, until very recently. I use potassium hydroxide now.” 

Voldemort drifted off into quietness after that. Harry lay awake, wondering if Hermione might be too curious if he asked her for a basic chemistry textbook, so that he could understand the difference between sodium and potassium hydroxide. There were a few on Voldemort’s shelves, but he did not believe they would aid someone with little exposure to the subject. 

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potassium Hydroxide makes softer soap than Sodium Hydroxide. The process of making soap is essentially an equilibrium reaction between oils and lye, releasing soap-salts, water and glycerol. 
> 
> Catullus 50 - is one of the most studied poems of Catullus, because it speaks of love and longing, a tad unrequited. Looking at the other material Catullus wrote (delightfully erotic, disrespectful and filthy), it is a stark difference. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this! Let me know what you think :)


	27. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt,” Harry remarked. 
> 
> “Shut up,” Voldemort replied. “I have made it work for decades, Harry. For decades!”

“Hello!” Harry greeted Flitwick. 

“Harry, what a pleasure!” Flitwick told him. “I was setting the wards on the castle for the summer. Did you know the reach and the form of the wards differ from season to season?”

Harry settled in to hear Flitwick rambling on about wards, while thinking of the same man catching Riddle and Derrick Watson red-handed over his desk in his classroom.

“How is your master doing?” Flitwick asked then, bright eyed, wise and perceptive. “He does not seem to be ill-treating you yet. I heard from Severus that you had been curious about his past.”

“It has been fine,” Harry replied. “I just recently discovered about Abraxas Malfoy and him. I was curious. Do you remember him, Filius?”

“Abraxas Malfoy?” Flitwick asked. “Well, rather like our Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy. Had innate skill, but impulsive and impatient. I suppose we must excuse the Black heritage. It was so for your godfather too. Sirius was skilled, but James was more patient.” 

Harry grinned. James really had been much more patient compared to Sirius. Harry’s father had grown up. Sirius had never done that.

“I wasn’t asking about Abraxas.”

“I know.” Flitwick sighed and came to stand beside Harry. They looked over the empty Great Hall together. Flitwick sighed again and said, “He was a charming boy. Handsome, but thin as if underfed. I remember him as a waif in his first year here. You must know all about it from Albus. I don’t know what else to tell you. I caught him involved with another boy once. I directed him to be cautious and to use the Room of Requirement for such illicit assignations, as they were illicit during that time. He never made a mention of it afterwards, but I found neatly wrapped bars of soap on my desk every now and then. No magic had been used in the making of them and yet I could pinpoint the maker. Sometimes, Harry, you don’t need to trace magic to find the wizard.”

“He still makes soap,” muttered a new voice then, and Harry turned to face Snape who had joined them silently. 

“Does he now?” Flitwick asked politely. 

“I think he makes them when he needs to think. There is usually surplus and he ends up mentioning that there is soap stacked on the side-tables after meetings, so that anyone interested might take them away.”

“That is quite a story,” Flitwick said smiling. “Do you bring some then?” 

“It is fragrant,” Snape said, scowling. “Usually a mix of several herbs, and lavender and roses. Evan once said it was disturbing that the Dark Lord liked to bath with a soap smelling of roses.” 

Harry grinned. That was not what Voldemort made for their use. So maybe Voldemort made them in batches, marking each for their intended receivers, and was not quite palming off surplus as much as making them with intent. 

“Filius, Potter is here. I might as well as attempt to educate him on something useful.”

“Apparating lessons?” Harry asked tiredly. He knew he needed them, but he was also confident he would never learn them from Snape. 

“Cheer up, Harry,” Flitwick said. “It will be well worth it once you can Apparate up and down the country.”

Snape led Harry down to the borders of the Forest. 

“What happened to Eloise?”

“She died raving mad,” Snape replied curtly. “It is not pleasant.”

“I know,” Harry said sadly. “Her mind must have been a mess.”

“A feeble mind is no defence against the Dark Lord’s obliviation or the Headmaster’s Legilimency. You should know that better than most. The Dark Lord liked her,” Snape said. “She was fond of him too. The Dark Lord was always giving her gifts and we speculated it was to ingratiate himself with Abraxas more. After Abraxas’s death, we thought he would stop paying attention to her. He didn’t cease. He continued taking tea with her every Saturday until Godric’s Hollow. Rumours say that he fucked her too during that period.”

Harry was not surprised, though he felt a spark of anger on hearing the words. Voldemort solved most of his personal problems through sex and obliviation. That was not news to Harry. Still, fucking the wife of a man he had been in love with for decades was a new low, even by those standards. She had been helpless throughout the whole mess! Harry was also grateful that Dumbledore had not shown him those memories. He would not have been able to stomach that. There was something wrong with the picture of Riddle fucking women, in the first place. Yet, those early associations had been decisions made for keeping up a clean reputation. This, though, this had been a choice deliberately made for a bunch of fucked up reasons Harry did not even want to think about.

“I wonder what could have happened if Dumbledore had not said whatever he said to Abraxas that day?” 

Snape looked at him thoughtfully before saying, “The greater good is a slippery slope. There was only one way to stop the Dark Lord and it was Abraxas. The Headmaster did what he needed to. He saved thousands at the expense of a few.” 

Harry was beginning to think that even if Dumbledore had said nothing, Abraxas would have one day or the other, acted bizarrely. The Black genetics were unstable, in his opinion. Capable of the greatest deeds of valour and sacrifice, of savagery, capable of the fiercest love, and prone to a host of personality disorders. 

——

“What are you stewing about?”

Harry shrugged and returned to his reading material on Apparation. He was nearly getting the hang of it, though he supposed that he had better master it, unless he wanted Snape to make good on his threat to attach Harry’s body parts in random order after the next Splinching. Still, for the volatile combination of Harry, the student, and Snape, the tutor, it had not gone terribly badly so far. Whoever knew that discussing Voldemort’s past affairs would give them common ground? Harry had never expected, in his wildest dreams, for that to be an ice-breaker.

“The fury in your mind has been leaking into mine. You had best find a way to deal with it, whatever it is.”

“I am dealing with it,” Harry snapped. “Let me be.” 

“Are you blocked? Learning to apparate can be hard for some in the beginning. It is not very intuitive.”

“I am learning just fine,” Harry muttered. Voldemort looked concerned. Harry pinched his nose. This was not good. He was going to get angry and accuse Voldemort, and even if they were valid reasons, it was not going end anywhere good. He took a deep breath and did his best to think happy, calming thoughts. There were not many of them right then floating around in his head. 

“What is it?” 

Right. Conversation. Calmness. Reasoning. Voldemort had not been difficult to deal with so far and Harry knew there was no reason to think that was going to change. He just needed to calm down and ask the man. 

“Were you fucking Eloise after he died?” 

Voldemort looked unnerved for a fraction of an instant before his features smoothed into blankness. “Yes,” he replied. “Severus told you of the rumours, didn’t he? He could never resist gossip. Possibly why he got along with Dumbledore. Must have gossiped over tea and scones.”

Harry glared at him. It was funny, and true (he knew that Snape and Dumbledore were a bit gossipy when together), but he was not going to let that sway him from the topic. 

“You think that she was in no state to give consent, what with her helpless position.”

Harry nodded. 

“It was not a crowning moment,” Voldemort said quietly. “She came to me, for what that is worth.”

“That doesn’t make it any better. She was a mess. Do you regret it?”

Voldemort frowned thoughtfully. After a few moments, he said carefully, “No. I believe it was beneficial for us. She had never been touched in pleasure before. I—- I needed something concrete to tether me during those years. After my failure of judgement, after he had punished me for it, I needed to…feel validated, as strange as it sounds. I cannot say that worked very well, but it was better than nothing at all.”

Harry watched him. That had been fucked up, but what did he expect Voldemort to say?

“I hadn’t expected her to die,” Voldemort said suddenly, looking at the moon through the open window. “I returned to find her dead. I returned to find that she had been raving mad before she had died. I returned to find that Dumbledore had finished what I had started, and her mind must have been a wretched holocaust by the end of it all. Did you know, Harry, that the word _holocaust_ comes from Greek _holokauston_ , meaning an animal sacrifice where the poor animal is completely burnt to the Gods as offering? I had never wished that upon her. Sometimes, Harry, it is impossible to foresee consequences. She had forgotten everything about Abraxas and me, so I had not seen the point in obliviating her after his death. I was only a grieving friend, and she the mourning wife. So she was unfortunate enough to become attached, and to remember everything between us, and when I fell, she took the news quite hard and it broke her. That, I had not foreseen. It is an irony, a tragedy and a travesty all at the same time.” 

“What would you have done if she was alive?” Harry asked softly.

“I was fond of her. She had neither malice nor pride in her and was utterly unlike me. She gave and gave, and clung to me after lovemaking, and whispered words sweet and true. I craved a man’s body, I hungered for a male touch, but I swore she would not bear my infidelity. I stayed true to that. It seemed the least I could do after everything she had borne.”

Voldemort laughed though it ended in a sigh. He turned to face Harry, reached across the distance separating them to touch Harry’s mark as if to ground himself, and said solemnly, “You are going to be entertained by this wretched tale. She was the only woman whose virginity I had claimed, and the sight of her blood upset me badly, but I could not let her know that, not while she lay there waiting trustingly to be shown the pleasures of sex. I was the first to see her body. So I swallowed my panic and discomfort, closed my eyes and pretended that I was fucking her dead husband, and showed her what some man who liked her more could have shown her decades before. It went better the next time, and it improved with each episode afterwards, but I was tempted to obliviate myself after the first night. When I returned to find that she had died mad, while I was still haunted by Abraxas, grappling with what had happened to me in Wormtail’s care. I was sick of it all and took an oath to stay celibate. I did that, until you wore a catsuit to kill me.” 

Harry stared at him quietly, processing what he had said. It made sense, in a twisted, ugly way. And Harry had happened, unthinking and careless, and it had brought them here. It was a twisted place to be, and yet not ugly. 

As if picking up on his thoughts, Voldemort asked quietly, “What will it take you to let it be? I am doing my best.”

There was a past that Voldemort was endeavouring to put behind him. Harry was dragging him back into it, with his curiosity. Harry suspected that they would be never free of it in entirety, given his nature to be curious and given the fact that everyone seemed to know about Voldemort’s dysfunctional relationship with Abraxas. And in the deepest, darkest corner of his heart, Harry knew that Voldemort could never forget. How could he? They had loved for four decades.

Voldemort traced the mark on Harry’s chest gently. Harry remembered what he had said about the mark, that it had required a certain emotion on the part of the caster.

“Is there enough of a difference, though?” Harry asked quietly, grasping Voldemort’s hand in his own. “I think there is. I am okay, you know. I am only curious. I don’t know what it is like. I haven’t loved anyone else.” 

“Harry, Harry. I mourn him. I celebrate you.” 

Harry made a stifled, broken gasp before lurching over to kiss the man. It was visceral and clumsy when Voldemort fucked him then, and yet there was grace too, and when Harry reached up to cup the man’s face, he felt Voldemort’s mind deep inside his own, coating him from the inside, eerily similar and yet different. 

This was it, Harry knew. They could never be more perfect than this. It was enough. It was more than most people had, wasn’t it? Count your blessings, Petunia had told him often when shoving him inside the cupboard. He counted his blessings as he watched Voldemort flex and thrust deep into him, and found that he was indeed blessed. 

Voldemort came first, and the contorted expression of ecstasy on his face was enough to send Harry crashing too. 

Once they had recovered slightly, Harry kneaded the muscles on Voldemort’s back firmly and whispered, “I thought early orgasm was my area.”

Voldemort laughed freely, and Harry cherished that sound, and replied, “My age doesn’t matter. Your mind is the finest drug I have been high on.”

“Flattery,” Harry said fondly, feeling flattered nonetheless. He pressed a kiss to Voldemort’s lips, and could feel the lingering smile there. 

Right then, there was a crack of sound, shrill. Voldemort turned swiftly to face the direction, and Harry followed suit. Oh, there stood a silver porpoise, looking quite frightened. 

“Fuck Fudge,” Voldemort muttered and buried his face in the crook of Harry’s neck. 

“Fudge can cast a Patronus?” Harry asked, bewildered. His view of the world was shaken by this new knowledge of Fudge’s abilities. 

“Plymouth has fallen!” exclaimed the porpoise in Fudge’s voice.

“Remus! There were three thousand in the city!” Harry exclaimed, pushing Voldemort to the side and getting up. “We must go.”

“Fuck Grindelwald,” Voldemort said then, and pulled the bear fur blankets over their heads.

Despite his worry over Remus, Mad-Eye and all the others at Plymouth, Harry could not help a grin at Voldemort’s petulance. He had noticed it once or twice before. Voldemort liked his lie-ins and hated any interruptions that called him away. Just as Harry was about to try and convince him to get up and act, another Patronus appeared, ghostly and beautiful, and he drew in a sharp breath, for it was the mate to his own. 

“Fuck Severus,” Voldemort announced helpfully. 

Oh, a doe, for his mother. Harry sighed. Snape was the most predictable man in the world. What would it take for him to move on, finally? Harry wondered how Dumbledore had not gone spare in dealing with the man. Harry certainly was close to snapping. 

“My lord, if you will not come to London, I will have to send Fawkes with the next message,” the patronus spoke dolefully in Snape’s voice. 

“You don’t want that,” Harry told Voldemort seriously. “Fawkes trills Good King Wenceslas worse than Albus Dumbledore ever did.”

Voldemort groaned and turned away, as if that would make it all go away. Harry was not surprised by that. Voldemort preferred to obliviate the problems he could not solve by having sex with. 

“Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt,” Harry remarked. He felt very wise. He had once heard Hermione say that and had noted it for future use.

“Shut up,” Voldemort replied. “I have made it work for decades, Harry. For decades!” 

A lynx appeared then, ghostly and ethereal, and Kingsley’s deep voice resounded in the room. “Retreating from Plymouth with five-hundred. Immediate reinforcements required to bolster vanguard.” 

Harry pressed a kiss to his shoulder and got up. He hunted around for his clothes and wand, and fetched Voldemort’s wand which had rolled under the desk. He then hurried to the wardrobe and grabbed a set of robes for Voldemort. 

“Woollen,” Voldemort called out, rising to a sitting position and blinking as if to shake the postcoital haze away. “I duel better in woollen clothes.” 

 

That made no sense to Harry, but he obliged. Voldemort got to his feet and ran into the bath. Harry could hear the shower. He needed one too, but he did not think it was relevant right then. He hurried over to the map on the wall and looked at the routes from Plymouth to London. 

Voldemort rushed out then, wet and dripping onto the carpet. Harry sighed and shot a drying charm at the man, reminded of all the ribbing Voldemort indulged in at the expense of absent-minded mathematicians. Voldemort threw his robes on, picked up his wand, and offered his hand to Harry. 

Instinct led Harry to look up at Voldemort as the other man made a port-key. For an instant, fear flared in him unbidden. Harry gripped his shoulders and pulled him into a fierce kiss.

“It is a loss that cannot be recouped,” Voldemort told Harry seriously. “Nevertheless, we must go on.” 

Harry nodded and reached out to touch the port-key. As he was about to leave, he caught sight of the Tales of Beedle the Bard on Voldemort’s desk, lying open, half-read. 

———


	28. Magna Carta

“My lord-”

“We have been trying to organize the defence-” 

“There are five hundred still fleeing from the battle!”

“This is what shall be done,” Voldemort cut in sharply through the cacophony of voices in the hall. “Lucius, look to Croydon, Bath, Basingstoke and Rochester. Madam Marchbanks, please assist Lucius in doing so. The wards must be bolstered.”

“What about Plymouth?” Fudge asked worriedly, wringing his bowler hat. 

“I hope they burned the supplies before deserting the city,” Voldemort replied. “Grindelwald does not have a supply-chain yet. He needs one if he is to lay siege to London.”

“There are sallies and ambushes trapping the five-hundred fleeing,” Lucius said then, business-like, reading through a sheaf of scrolls at a speed that Hermione would envy had she seen it. “Alastor Moody is leading the retreat.”

“What about Remus?” Harry asked urgently. 

“We have not received any intelligence,” Kingsley told him kindly. 

All right. Remus must be with Moody. They had been close, when Harry had visited Plymouth. They had been making plans together for the defence. 

“Did the ley lines achieve anything?” Rufus asked Voldemort then. He looked tired and grim, as if he had not slept a wink in many days. Harry suddenly felt bad about his frolicking. Others had been worried and stressed, and Harry had been enjoying sex. 

“It will be the last defence that London has,” Voldemort said gravely.

“About the five-hundred-“ Kingsley began again, dogged.

“Bella Black is still recovering,” Voldemort replied. “She could have been sent to lead them to Bath otherwise. Is there anyone amongst the Aurors or the Order who has her proficiency in leading men through traps and ambushes?”

Harry was, for the first time, glad that he had dragged her back. She was insane, but she was useful during times of war, as long as she was on your side. The only other person who compared was Mad-Eye. 

The conversation went on, and Harry fretted about Remus, until Kingsley patted him on the shoulder before leaving. The others had already left. It was just Voldemort and him.

“I require you to find a man for me,” Voldemort told him then.

“What?” Harry asked, bewildered. Didn’t Voldemort have spies for that? 

“Horace Slughorn,” Voldemort said. “Useful and rare. Let Bella track him down. Your task is to persuade him to visit me.” 

Bellatrix again? Harry hoped that Voldemort did not think that they were a good team. Really, he could go the rest of his life without seeing her again. 

“It will be a safe errand,” Voldemort explained. “Horace knows how to be safe. You must go because he will listen to you.”

“Why?”

“There are reasons,” Voldemort said vaguely. Harry wondered if they had something to do with the photograph Snape had shown him, of his mother standing near that walrus-like man.

—-

He found Bellatrix clad in black, draped on a white couch. The sunlight streaming through the windows did nothing to alleviate the gothic gloom of that picture. Narcissa, clad in yellow frills and lace, interrupted the ambience when she asked him if he was amenable to tea. 

“No, thank you,” Harry said politely. Narcissa looked offended. Harry wondered if he was supposed to have asked for tea. Before he could think of saying anything else, Narcissa had left the room and he heard her heels clicking away.

“We are to go find Slughorn,” Harry told Bellatrix.

“It will be easier to find the Loch Ness monster,” Bellatrix grumbled. “My cousin should have taken lessons from him on hiding.” 

“Can we not talk about Sirius?” Harry asked tiredly. 

“I have the right!” she shouted then. “He was my cousin!”

“And you killed him!” Harry shouted back. 

She was breathing hard, as if she had run a long distance, and he could see blotches of red on her pale cheeks. Impassioned, her eyes sparkled in madness. That, along with her thin form reminded him so much of Sirius that he wanted to run away and cry. 

Instead, he focussed grimly on the promise he had made to Dumbledore, and said quietly, “We should focus on Slughorn.”

—-

Working with Bellatrix was remarkably similar to working with Ron. She did not speak much, had occasional sparks of insight she could not explain methodically unlike Hermione, and she drank huge vats of tea. She worked from the couch, rifling through a wizarding atlas and scribbling notes on a long scroll that was stained by the rings of her tea-cups. Harry, meanwhile, read accounts of the various famous Slug-Club members and tried to pinpoint where the man might hide. They had narrowed it down to South America. 

They were occasionally interrupted by Narcissa, who came in stiffly bearing potions that she forced down Bellatrix’s throat by standing there with pursed lips and narrowed gaze until her sister gave in. It reminded Harry of Remus and Mrs. Weasley dealing with Sirius. Harry awkwardly avoided looking at them. 

Later, as the night drew on, Harry was yawning and thinking of returning. He had felt tiredness seep in through the bond too, adding to his own exhaustion. He wondered what Voldemort had been up to. 

There was a mild clearing of a throat. Harry turned, half-expecting to see Lucius Malfoy. He had that tic, Harry had noticed. Only, it was not Malfoy and it was a portrait that Harry immediately recognised. 

“Oh!” he exclaimed softly, half-rising.

The man in the portrait, thirty and handsome, peered at him carefully. Then he said, “Bella dear, is this a new pupil?”

Bellatrix shuddered and Harry shuddered too. Then she replied, “No, uncle. This one is the Dark Lord’s, marked.”

“And what a strange mark you bear!” the portrait exclaimed, peering at Harry’s neck where the mark was evident.

Harry just shrugged, not knowing what to say.

“Harry,” he said uncomfortably, not knowing how much of his history was known to the portrait. 

“Hello, Harry,” the portrait said in a stately tone, inclining his head. “I am Abraxas Malfoy. It is pleasing to see that we are recruiting fine, young men.”

“And women,” Bellatrix cut in.

“Yes, dear,” Abraxas said with a sniff. 

“I know,” Bellatrix said tiredly, as if the argument was an old one. “You did not want women to be involved. The Dark Lord, being more progressive, disagreed and got his way.”

Abraxas raised his golden eyebrows as if to indicate what he thought of that progressive idea. Harry, having heard Vernon and Petunia discuss women in the army, wondered if Abraxas might have had a point. Look at Bellatrix. What had war done to her? She was mostly insane. Then again, Harry thought, so was Mad-Eye. And perhaps Bellatrix had been insane before she had killed. He was not okay with Hermione in an army, though he could support Ron or Neville or any of his male friends enlisting.

“He has not visited recently,” Abraxas said solemnly, looking at Bellatrix as if she held all the answers he required. 

“He has been busy with this war,” Bellatrix replied distractedly, her eyes already back on the wizarding atlas she had been leafing through. 

“What war has he won without asking for my counsel?” 

Bellatrix hmmed, clearly not having heard the question, her mind fully focussed on her reading. Harry, though, stared at the portrait, realizing that it was not without merit. Godric’s Hollow, recruiting Wormtail and all the greatest mishaps Voldemort had made the last time around, he had not had Abraxas’s advice. Who was advising Voldemort now? Were the members of the Inner Circle as clever as Abraxas once had been? 

“Oh, never mind, you have only paid attention to your dear Sirius and the Dark Lord,” Abraxas complained. 

Bellatrix looked up and said quietly, “He is dead, you know. I killed him.”

Abraxas’s portrait stared at her for a long instant before saying in a tone of profuse apology, “Oh Bella, my dearest girl!” 

“He would have killed me otherwise,” she said, shrugging, though her eyes were wild with emotion. Harry wondered if the Blacks felt emotionally unstable regardless of what emotion they were experiencing. 

“Oh, no, he wouldn’t have,” Abraxas said staunchly. “That boy loved you.”

There was a sharp cough then, and Narcissa entered the room. “That is quite enough,” she told the portrait sternly. 

“He has not visited, Cissy!” 

Narcissa sighed and flicked her wand. The portrait disappeared. She looked across at Harry and explained, “Magical portraits can be trying at times, particularly when there is little to gossip about.”

“Aunt Walburga said he was on drugs when he sat for that portrait,” Bellatrix said disdainfully. “The memories and impressions that were left imprinted are high, to put it politely.” 

“Mr. Potter, you should be returning,” Narcissa cut in, before her sister could say more. “I have received a port-key from the Dark Lord that will take you home.” 

Home. Harry stared at her for a moment. Home had been in a photo-album, with his parents and Sirius, in Godric’s Hollow. Home had been Albus Dumbledore’s office, it had been the Gryffindor common room, it had been anywhere Ron and Hermione had been, it had been a little cupboard under the stairs from which Aunt Petunia would free him on stormy nights.

Narcissa must have taken his quietness for fear, because she smiled wanly and said, “He cannot harm you, while you are bound by armistice.” 

“I am fine,” Harry hurriedly said, rather shocked by her attempt at reassuring him. He looked at Bellatrix who was still focussed on her work. 

“I will explain,” Narcissa told him. 

“All right then,” Harry replied, taking the port-key. 

——

He ended up on the borders of the Forbidden Forest. He could see the castle looming ahead. As he stumbled back onto his feet and dusted off the knees of his trousers, he saw Voldemort standing before him. They embraced and Harry leaned up for a kiss.

“I have to be in Croydon tonight,” Voldemort explained. “It is not safe for you to go home alone. Stay here tonight. Go to Bella tomorrow.”

“You could have told me in some other manner,” Harry said, confused. “You didn’t have to come here.”

“No. I wanted to.” Voldemort kissed him again and moved back. “Come on, then. Let me walk you to the Entrance Hall.”

“Bellatrix is nuts.” 

“It is odd to hear her called that,” Voldemort remarked. “I have only heard her called Bella, you see. And she is a Black, Harry. The madness comes with the name.”

“Her sister is a Black too,” Harry pointed out. “Saner.”

“The Blacks loved their stars,” Voldemort said, looking up at the clear night sky. “Narcissa was not named after a star. There was a prophecy, made by a gypsy fortune-teller who visited them once, that the last true Black would be born before the turn of that decade. Narcissa was born afterwards. Whoever won that duel in the Ministry would have been the last Black left, Harry. And they both knew it. Loneliness when carrying on a legacy as terrible and powerful as theirs is not a kind fate. Their paths were different, and they still found an echo in each other, tied together by blood and ill-fated obsession.”

At times as this, Harry found that Voldemort made profoundly compelling statements that still made very little sense. Perhaps it had been like this that he had first charmed the initial group of Death Eaters. What did Petunia call them? Thatcher apologists? Right, Voldemort was a Black apologist. He assigned very little moral accountability to them because of what he considered their inescapable fate ending in madness. 

He changed the subject, saying teasingly, "She thinks you are progressive."

"Rather pathetic to see the staggering devotion at one's command if only one appeals to the unwanted and the abandoned," Voldemort remarked wryly. "It is one lesson I learned well from your late mentor."

Harry shrugged. He had not liked how Dumbledore often commanded absolute loyalty through the coin of acceptance. 

"Is that what you were doing? Buying her devotion by letting her fight for you?"

"I let her fight for me because she is excellent at it. It was neither suffragist policy nor Machiavellian strategy, though it is flattering to be suspected of such motives." 

Harry knew what a suffragette was. He knew because of David Bowie and Suffragette City, and he had Hermione to thank for introducing him to that album. He smiled. Everything he knew about Muggle popular culture could be traced back to either Hermione or Voldemort, and wasn't that alarming?

"Did the wizarding world have its own equivalent of the voting movement?" Harry asked curiously. 

"Women cannot vote, Harry," Voldemort said quietly. "Only land-owning wizards above the age of twenty-one can vote. Quaint and contradictory, as the wizarding world often is, since women have held positions of great power in the Wizengamot throughout the history of that institution. Perhaps the writers of the Constitution distinguished between the judiciary and the legislature."

"Hermione will change that soon enough," Harry said confidently, while still trying to come to terms with this fact. "There is a Constitution?"

"Even since John signed the Magna Carta under pressure from the barons, there has been a Constitution in this country, in both the worlds," Voldemort explained. "At various points, there were attempts to topple it and to subvert it, but history has shown that it managed to prevail, crippled but resilient, surviving feudalism, monarchies, civil wars, and the church." 

Harry wondered how Voldemort could seamlessly connect the Muggle and the wizarding worlds when offering explanations. How, then, he fretted, had Voldemort come to hate the Muggle world enough to contemplate destroying it? 

"The Isle of Man enfranchised women in 1881," Voldemort said then. "I believe most of the United States, except the Deep South, had enfranchised women before that. Britain followed in 1928."

"Why do you like the Isle of Man?" Harry asked, wondering. "There is only one magical settlement there, and it is small, and it is deep inside the town of Douglas." 

Voldemort guided Harry over a puddle with a touch to his wrist, and replied, "It is a quaint story, the sort that you adore. One day, I shall tell you all about it."

Snape was there at the steps leading to the Entrance Hall, a lantern held aloft in a hand and his wand in the other. 

“I can take Potter from here,” he declared. 

Harry had wanted to embrace Voldemort and kiss once again, but that was not going to happen with Snape looming over them. He shrugged and made his way up the stairs to join Snape. Voldemort walked back to the Forest. Snape turned and made his way in, leaving Harry to follow him.

“Thank you for coming to fetch me,” Harry said. “I can make my way to the tower.” 

“Follow me!”

Oh, fine, if that was how Snape wanted to go about it, Harry would comply. He was too tired to argue with Snape. Once they were in the dungeons, in Snape’s office, a place Harry remembered with little fondness, Snape turned around and glared at him. From somewhere behind the wall, Fawkes trilled. Harry wondered if the phoenix minded living in the dungeons, away from the sunlight and open skies. 

“Nobby is a house-elf in Malfoy employ,” Snape said. “Call him if Bella attempts to harm you. Do you understand?”

Harry blinked. Then he wondered why he was surprised. Snape would protect him, against both their wishes, for the sake of his dead mother.

“Thank you,” Harry said quietly. “Please don’t take risks over this. I can handle Bellatrix just fine.”

“She is not stable, Potter,” Snape told him sternly. “No more than your godfather was.” 

“Sirius died protecting me,” Harry replied fiercely, wishing Snape would let old grudges be. “He would not have hurt me at all.”

“Bella is loyal too, but not to you. She hates you.”

For what? For Godric’s Hollow? For saving her life? None of those reasons were rational, but Harry knew that to associate her with rationality was folly. Harry had rational reasons to hate her (the Longbottoms, Sirius), but that was neither here nor there.

“Have you heard any news of Remus at all?” Harry asked Snape, hoping that the man would answer him without slights and sniping about werewolves.

“No,” Snape said. “Nymphadora reached London with her group of fifteen today, unharmed.”

“That is good news,” Harry said, relieved for Tonks. 

Was Remus and Mad-Eye stuck between enemy groups because of their large contingent? Harry was gravely worried and he would have asked Voldemort about it if not for Snape dragging him into the school before that. 

“Petunia Dursley has sent me a letter,” Snape continued hastily, as if he wanted those words spoken and forgotten as soon as he could. “She enquired about your welfare.”

Petunia must be worried if she had deigned to send a letter to Spinner’s End, to a man she loathed. Harry felt guilty about worrying her. He felt angry that she had bothered. Why had she? He had been out of her life. She should have been glad for that. She could have returned to playing the suburban, happy family skit she adored. He had been useless and a burden, facts that she had made sure to tell him again and again.

——

Bellatrix was dressed in a frilly green gown. Modestly. Harry stared at her for a long moment before shrugging and retreating to the desk where he had left his research materials. Must be Narcissa bossing her around, he guessed. For someone insane and sadistic, Bellatrix was easily handled by her younger sister. Harry wished Andromeda had possessed the same skill. 

“She does look a darling when she can be bothered, doesn’t she?” a familiar voice piped up from a portrait. 

Harry glanced at Abraxas, unsure what to say to that. So he just offered a good morning and turned his head back to his research on Gwenog Jones’s holiday estates near Cancun. 

“Puerto Rico?” Bellatrix asked, looking up at Harry. “Any correlation?”

“I did note that Oliver Wood had a vacation home there,” Harry replied, sifting through his notes. “A possibility. Jamaica seems more likely though, given the number of orders of crystallised pineapple that have been made to a certain London-based supplier in the last three years.”

On and on they debated, and Harry could even pretend that she was someone else, as long as he avoided looking at her. 

“Might I make a suggestion?” Abraxas cut in. They stopped to look up at him. He said, “Hungary. I knew Horace well. He will hide where you will not think to look for him. That is logical. However, he will also hide where you are afraid to venture to, because he feels safer so, even though that is not rational. You are forgetting to account for the second criterion.”

Bellatrix blinked. Harry stared at the portrait. He could see why Riddle had been obsessed. There was physical attractiveness, but there was a layer of cleverness and strategy beneath all that. It was different from Voldemort’s brilliance that was grounded in the understanding of what lurked in the human mind. It seemed more similar to Dumbledore’s brilliance, grounded in the understanding of what lurked in the human heart.  
——


	29. Alföld

“I met Abraxas’s portrait,” Harry told Voldemort that night. “You must have heard about it from Bellatrix, I guess.”

“I did,” Voldemort replied, handing him a cup of coffee. 

Harry looked down. It smelled as well-brewed as always, and there was froth on the top patterned as a cuckoo clock. God, every time he thought he knew Voldemort decently well enough, the man went and did something like this. 

“You are impossible!” Harry exclaimed, drawing close and kissing him soundly. Oh, that mouth tasted like coffee. Yum! 

“Drink yours,” Voldemort laughed, pulling away. “It takes little to impress you, perhaps.”

“Nonsense,” Harry said sincerely. “You are impressive.” 

“That portrait was done when he had been high on cocaine,” Voldemort told him. “I would not take that as an accurate representation of his vices or virtues.”

“He was clever, I think,” Harry said thoughtfully. “He said you haven’t visited recently. Sounded upset about that. Maybe you should.”

Voldemort did not reply. Harry wondered what to say. He decided to just play it by the ear and said, “There is a reason, isn’t there?”

“Only practicality,” Voldemort said, meeting his gaze pensively. “I know I am vulnerable enough without adding more layers of emotional distress in a time of war.” 

Harry wondered if that was why Voldemort had sent him to Bellatrix for the days and to Snape for the nights. Was he trying to reduce the layers of vulnerability? Harry thought of Petunia’s letter. Was his reluctance to correspond with her born of the same logic? Was he trying to reduce his emotional distress?

“Say, what about a round of buggery under the stars?” 

“We are in London,” Harry pointed out. “You cannot see the stars here.”

“Oh, Harry, but that is easy to amend, isn’t it?”

So that was how they found themselves in a large meadow, white with snow, and when Harry looked up, he saw the endless expanse of star-encrusted sky spread above. The air was cold and he shivered. Voldemort cast spells to melt the snow in a small rectangular area, cast his trademark cushioning spells and added wards. 

“A warming spell?” Harry asked hopefully. 

“You will be warm soon enough.”

That was a good idea too. Harry grinned and waited patiently until Voldemort had finished his warding. 

“We are rather short on time,” Voldemort told him. “Why don’t you strip and get down on your fours, Harry? I understand that is the common position favoured on meadows.”

Harry stared at him, confused by that last remark. 

“By various farm animals,” Voldemort clarified. “That is how they breed. Strip, Harry. On your fours. I am going to mount you.” 

God, Voldemort made the most tacky statements sound delightfully erotic. Harry complied and got to his hands and knees. The air was cold and he felt wickedly exposed under the starry skies, with the snow around them and with the breeze on his skin raising goosebumps. Voldemort mounted him then, roughly and fast, and Harry’s grip slipped sending him face-first to the cushioned ground before he balanced himself again, and he was moaning, spurred on by the whispers against his skin about how he was rutting back against Voldemort like a mare in heat. He felt like one too, shameless and desperate, arching back despite the roughness. His fingers were caked in brown mud, pulling clumps of grass with every erratic thrust. There was only the scent of the grass, of hyssops on the breeze, and of sex. 

Harry came first and Voldemort fucked him through his orgasm, unrelenting. Harry knew he was shouting his pleasure louder, spurred on by the open skies and the endless snow-covered meadows around, with not a trace of human inhabitation in sight. He could feel Voldemort steady himself with a hand on Harry’s hip, pulling out swiftly. 

“Why?”

“I want to fuck you again, once you have caught your breath,” Voldemort replies, sounding nonchalant about it as if he was talking about taking his tea with a dash of milk and two cubes of sugar. The harsh breathing gave him away nonetheless. 

Harry laughed, happy to play the part of the thoroughly ravished. 

“Did not know you were so inspired by fucking in the open,” he murmured. 

Voldemort stretched beside Harry, and they lay on the muddy ground, their breathing in rapid rhythm, where the snow had given way to slush and grass. Harry turned to look at him. He cut a striking picture, of long, white, loose limbs against brown mud, eyes closed and his face shadowed by desire suspended. 

“You are going to come hard if I touch you,” Harry remarked, itching to touch and still withholding, because he was taken with the idea of a second fuck in the mud. There was something animalistic and base about this episode and he had not known he would come to like it. 

“You are a muse to my cock,” Voldemort said sardonically, keeping his eyes pressed close and his fingers clenched into fists. 

Harry laughed at that and let his eyes slide back to the skies, inhaling deeply and relishing the quiet. Eventually, Voldemort moved closer and whispered in his ear, “Ride me. I want to watch you lost to taking your pleasure from me, setting your own pace, selfish and wanton.” 

Oh, it was like that, then. Harry grinned. They had come far, both of them. He was overcome by nostalgia and love for a moment, and leaned across to kiss the man. 

“You are a touch away from crashing,” Harry noted. “If I want to ensure my pleasure in my own time, at my own pace, it is best if you are tied down and fitted with a cock-ring, don’t you think?”

Voldemort inhaled sharply and his eyes dilated in dark desire. He nodded and murmured spells to bring to existence what Harry had asked for. 

They had come far indeed. 

Harry rode him, under the stars. The breeze played on his body cool. Underneath him, Voldemort was a creature of lust, bucking desperately into Harry as best as he could while tethered down to the ground. Harry relished in the jagged breaths, in the taut body he drew pleasure from, and when he felt his orgasm sneaking through his body, he sighed and bent forward to kiss the man as he came. Voldemort’s lips were cold and his teeth clacked against Harry’s tongue in futile desperation. Harry prolonged the kiss, exploring the crevices of Voldemort’s slack mouth with relish, knowing that the man’s pleasure was his to give.

“Look at me,” he whispered, pulling away. 

Voldemort’s voice was a broken, soft, hoarse cry as he said, “Harry, please. I can’t-”

“You will,” Harry told him, pressing a finger to the cock-ring to release it. Voldemort shuddered as he staved off orgasm with effort, and his eyes were shining brighter than the stars above. Harry licked him, every inch of him he could reach, licked the sweat off that white skin until Voldemort had fallen into a trance where all he spoke was Harry’s name, over and over again, as if it held the key to all the mysteries of his world. Harry undid the bonds and rolled them over, gripping Voldemort’s cock and leading it into him. 

“Go on,” Harry told him gently. “Fuck me. Come deep in me.” 

Voldemort obeyed, all uncoordinated limbs and jagged thrusts, until he came screaming Harry’s name to the stars. 

Later, as they lay there on the muddy ground, with Voldemort collapsed atop him, Harry watched the stars and thought of Sirius. 

“Where are we?” he asked, trailing his fingers down Voldemort’s spine in a caress. 

“The Great Hungarian Plain,” Voldemort murmured, his face buried in its familiar position in the crook of Harry’s neck. “Alfold, as they call it.”

Harry was about to ask more when something registered in his head. 

“Hungary?” he asked, panicked. “Voldemort, we have to leave!” 

“He is marching on Croydon,” Voldemort replied sleepily. “This is the safest place right now, except Siberia, but I don’t like Russia very much. It is cold and smells of vodka.”

“What wizarding drink is popular there?” Harry asked, curious. What was their version of Firewhiskey? 

“I don’t know. I grew up averse to drinking. Too much gin had addled most of the adults I knew in my childhood. Gin and Whitechapel had been synonymous then. Madam Cole’s supplies were often raided by some of the other boys. It did nothing to improve their temperament or my fondness for gin. Even after I came to Hogwarts, even after being introduced to higher quality alcohol, my tolerance and fondness remained low. I did eventually grow to truly like mulled wine.”

“You still keep a selection of liquor in the house.”

“I am often gifted fine liquor by those who think I am sophisticated enough to appreciate it. I can hardly tell them otherwise.”

Harry reached for his wand and cast a set of warming charms. His were not as good as Hermione’s, but they would have to do. Voldemort could have done that, but he seemed content enough to be sprawled atop Harry in a languid daze. Fondly, Harry ran his hands in a caress over the man’s back. That elicited a happy murmur. Harry, as often happened in such situations, wondered how it had come to this. 

“Trust her. She will see you through.” 

“What?” Harry asked, drawn back from his idyllic musings. “Who shall see me through what?” 

“We have a mission here,” Voldemort said quietly, lifting himself off Harry with reluctance. “We are to find Horace, my old Head of House.”

—-

“There you are!” Voldemort exclaimed, pointing his wand at a piece of furniture.

Horace turned out to be a misshapen, squishy couch in a deserted homestead. It groaned and creaked, and wobbled badly, and then belched, and suddenly became a walrus-like man who glared at them both. 

“Um, hello,” Harry said politely. “My name is Harry.”

“I know that. Everyone knows that,” the man said irritably, waving his hand in dismissal. “What do you want with me?”

“Horace, come back with us,” Voldemort told him. “Grindelwald has tracked you down. Did you know?”

“He has tracked me down multiple times and I have evaded him nonetheless,” the man said grumpily. “This is nothing new under the sun.”

Harry found him fascinating. Horace did not look at Voldemort directly, preferring to glare at Harry instead. He seemed more offended than frightened by their night-time incursion into his hiding place. 

“Harry, why don’t you attempt to convince Horace?” Voldemort asked him then. “I am off to inspect the surroundings.” 

Harry blinked. He did not even know the man. Voldemort made his way out after throwing Harry a reassuring glance. It did not help. 

“Lily’s son,” Horace muttered. “Got her eyes, you have. That must be driving our dear Severus insane.”

“Er, I think the parts of me that come from my father cancel out my eyes,” Harry said wryly. 

“Her eyes and Albus’s wit,” Horace pointed out. “Harry, you are a recipe crafted to drive Severus insane.” 

Harry blushed, thinking of Snape’s obsessions, and was glad to have enough of James in his character and appearance to avoid those associations. He was not sure that it worked like that, though. Lucius and even Draco looked sufficiently like Abraxas but Voldemort had never seemed to take the least interest in them in that manner. 

Horace walked over to the kitchen and called Harry in. He followed, wondering what he was supposed to present as a convincing argument. Horace Slughorn reminded him greatly of Amelia Bones, except that he seemed less patriotic and more squishy. Not very easily convinced. 

“Albus saw me before Christmas, when I was hiding in Jamaica,” Horace told him, setting a can of butterbeer before him. Harry took that politely and waited for the man to continue, curious as to why Voldemort and Dumbledore both seemed interested in him. “I thought it was his usual attempt to ferret out information about Tom’s horcruxes, but he was out of sorts and had wanted only company. He told me about you, Harry. He was proud of the man you had become. I can see why.”

Harry wondered what Dumbledore could have told him. Uncomfortably, he inclined his head to accept the compliment, as he had seen Dumbledore do often. 

“Now, your companion.” Horace sighed and stared at him carefully. “I was fond of him, before he killed his lover.”

“He didn’t kill Abraxas Malfoy,” Harry said quietly, wondering why that had upset Horace more than all the other atrocities. 

“So he tells me.” Horace sighed again, a deep and gusty sigh. “I am afraid I have significant experience in being lied to by him. Albus believed that he killed Abraxas.”

“Lucius Malfoy knows the truth,” Harry said quietly. “He was the one who found them first. You should ask him, if you want to know.”

“You believe.”

“Well, it is difficult not to, when I have seen enough evidence,” Harry explained. “He killed my parents. I have little reason to believe anything he says, without a lot of evidence.”

“He was a charming boy,” Horace said sadly. “I thought Abraxas would make a better man out of him.”

Harry looked at him carefully. Horace seemed guilty. Had he harboured their secret for a long time and egged them on in the hope that it would level Riddle a bit? 

“It probably has,” Harry told him frankly. “Look, you knew them better. Dumbledore knew them better. I cannot convince you about anything on this subject. I believe he didn’t kill Abraxas. I don’t know if that counts.”

“Albus told me that you fancied yourself in love.”

“I am pretty sure it isn’t a fancy anymore,” Harry said tiredly, raking his hands through his hair. “That isn’t relevant right now. Grindelwald needs to be dealt with. We have an armistice to avoid a civil war until that is over. This war has cost us greatly so far. Hogwarts is closed. Dumbledore…Dumbledore is gone and I could not even bury him. I don’t know why we need you, but I am told that we do. Will you please come?”

Horace looked sympathetic at the mention of Dumbledore and there was a shared sadness in his gaze as he pensively watched Harry. Finally, he sighed and said, “I will accompany you, on the condition that I can stay at Hogwarts.” 

“I guess that will be fine,” Harry said, shrugging. He did not know what Horace Slughorn was supposed to be useful for, anyway. 

As if on cue, Voldemort came back in and said, “Perhaps we should leave, then? Professor, we had best not bother about packing. They have tracked you down and there is an ambush awaiting us outside.”

“Come now,” Horace said dryly. “You are more than capable of dealing with that.”

“Under most circumstances,” Voldemort acknowledged. Harry stared at him, noticing that he seemed to be stressed. Harry had not seen him so even when the Aurors had raided. 

“What is it?” he asked, rising to his feet, worried. 

“Can’t you sense it?” Voldemort asked him, eyes solemn and resigned. “You are sensitive to it too, I know.” 

Harry inhaled sharply and grabbed Horace by the wrist. 

“Port-key?” he asked Voldemort. 

“No, I have to fight out. My magic is too strong to pass unnoticed. Fortunately, it should suffice to completely overwhelm yours,” Voldemort replied. “Horace, lead Harry out via your convenient backdoor, won’t you? It takes you to the woods to the east, I assume? Make a port-key to Hogwarts as soon as I have their full attention. Harry, go with him. He has survived numerous madmen over the years. He can get you to safety.”

“No!” Harry exclaimed, remembering the crater where Dumbledore had stood, remembering Bellatrix bleeding all over him. “For God’s sake, I am not leaving you to deal with that wand alone! You don’t know! You didn’t see how Dumbledore lost! You didn’t see Bellatrix fall! You aren’t duelling him!”

“I must, one day or another,” Voldemort said reasonably, coming closer and kissing Harry fiercely. “Go on, Harry. Don’t fret. I am protected by our prophecy, remember?” 

Prophecy! Harry wanted to wring the man. Before he could say a word, Horace cut in, asking, “Do you have anyone else with you?”

“No, we came alone,” Voldemort replied. “I wanted to draw him out of Britain. Keep the boy safe, Horace. For all our sakes.”

Horace sighed one of his portentous sighs and said, “That is what Albus told me too. Very well, then. Go on.”

Harry made to speak, but Voldemort had nodded to Horace and dashed out already. Horace grabbed Harry and dragged him along to a small, nondescript door. 

“He will be fine, my boy,” he assured Harry, as he hurried them along a dark tunnel. “Tom has survived worse.” 

The tunnel was similar to those Hermione had told Harry about from her medieval research. It simply led outside the homestead into a nearby copse of trees. Harry wondered how many before them had used the same escape route, to flee from invading armies. All thoughts then fled his mind when he saw the men ringing the homestead. Grey their robes were and in the rising dawn, with the skies a pale red against them, they looked eerie. Grindelwald was there, easily discernible because of his tall, emaciated frame. Harry watched as Voldemort walked forward with easy grace to meet them. 

“This was foolish,” Grindelwald told him. 

“A fine morning for a duel,” Voldemort replied. 

“You are outnumbered and outmatched,” Grindelwald told him. “What purpose is there to a duel?” 

Voldemort replied, “I am not Albus Dumbledore. I own Britain, by the ley lines. You cannot hope to conquer without defeating me. This is your chance.” 

Grindelwald nodded and turned to face his men. He barked orders in a language that Harry assumed was Hungarian, strange and unlovely it seemed to his ears. And that thought fled Harry’s mind as Grindelwald turned back, a familiar wand of death aloft in his hand. Only Horace’s tight grip prevented him moving towards that scene, and they stood hidden behind a giant tree. 

Voldemort bowed as he always did for his duels. Grindelwald did not. Harry was taken back to the graveyard. Voldemort did not insist on that courtesy this time, not with Grindelwald. He began circling, as he usually did in duels, but Grindelwald did not move. Harry gulped. He had seen Grindelwald duel, yielding not an inch of ground. 

The first curses were thrown. Grindelwald’s casting was silent but for the crackle of spells. Voldemort shouted his curses unforgivable. Harry found it strange that Voldemort did not have that customary shield before him. Perhaps he assumed it was a waste of effort against that wand. Voldemort was trusting his footwork more, trusting his agility and grace to keep him out of the way of the spells that were cast at him unrelentingly. Harry bit his lips, worried, because while Voldemort was a graceful man and the most coordinated person Harry knew, he was not Bellatrix or Sirius - he did not have their wild acrobatic skills. 

Then Grindelwald cast as spell on the ground and the earth shook all around him, and Harry knew this was that curse which had left a crater in Canterbury. Voldemort rose into the air, easily avoiding that trap. “Have you seen me fly?” he had asked Harry once, sleepily, full of contentment. Harry had then only known fondness. Now he only knew fear and his hand was clenched tight around his wand. 

“An interesting trick,” Grindelwald remarked, and Harry suspected he had heard true admiration in that tone. This was a reason why that man creeped Harry out. He seemed capable of detachment even when duelling people to death. 

Voldemort did not reply, casting again a Cruciatus. Harry was beginning to wonder if Voldemort even knew any other curse. It was not an effective response, given that Grindelwald’s shield was strong and sure. At the same time, he was beginning to get hopeful, slightly, because Voldemort seemed to be acting to the stereotype painted of him in the press and in Dumbledore’s notes. Voldemort swerved from spells, shouted his curses, and stayed within the oeuvre that he was most known for. 

And then, because he sensed it in his bond, he sensed the change. Voldemort arched backwards, face to the heavens, and cast an orange arc of fire that spun to the ground where Grindelwald stood. The shield held, barely, and Voldemort cast again, and the shield fell before Grindelwald could respond. Then it was fairer, with Voldemort’s precise spellwork against the might of the wand and Grindelwald’s own power. Voldemort did not let him have the time to cast another shield, keeping him on the defensive, casting spell after spell that was non-fatal and yet dangerous enough to batter down Grindelwald’s defenses.

“Please,” intoned Horace, beside Harry. Harry nodded fervently, hoping that it would be enough. 

Grindelwald started chanting, in that old and harsh language of his, but Voldemort lifted himself off the ground into the air. Grindelwald’s face was a dark mask of rage. Did that chant only work on opponents standing firm-footed on the ground? Grindelwald cast again, and the wand woke to his rage. Harry sensed it, old and malicious, seeking its kill with focus. He clutched the bole of the tree he was standing hidden behind, hoping, hoping, hoping. Voldemort must have sensed it too, because foreboding rose in the bond. Harry watched Voldemort cast faster, aiming to keep Grindelwald defending. It was his best bet against that wretched wand. Grindelwald was not a fool and he was a powerful wizard. Sure enough, he broke through Voldemort’s flurry of spells and that wand cast its first unforgivable that day. Voldemort reeled back, caught in its full power, and the next round of the same curse brought him low. 

“I could end this,” Grindelwald said. “Let me first break you.”

He cast the Cruciatus again and again, and Voldemort’s attempts at madly shielding himself failed. Harry was about to rush when he felt frozen by Horace’s petrifying charm. He stood there, forced to watch as the curse brought Voldemort to scream, a raw howl of terror nothing like the times when Harry had made him scream in pleasure. 

“Look at you,” Grindelwald said darkly. “Broken, already. Most of your victims were stronger.”

Harry knew that was not true. Voldemort was not fond of pain though he bore it with grace when required. This, this however was not pain. If Harry had not been doubtful of Voldemort’s sanity before, he would be right then. This was what had broken the Longbottoms. 

Grindelwald staggered then, as if smitten by an invisible hammer, and the wand slipped from his hand. He summoned it back in anger, but he lost his footing then. What seemed to be a hundred cutting curses fell upon him then and he yelled in pain. The wand fell from his hand again. 

Voldemort attempted to rise but unsteadily fell back to his knees, breathing harshly. The pain and the terror soaked the bond in Harry’s mind. Voldemort persisted still, and he flicked his wand of yew once more, and the Deathstick flew to him.

“Let me leave,” he asked Grindelwald then. “I have won.” 

Men in grey robes circled them, grim and forbidding, and their wands were drawn on Voldemort. A sense of resignation flooded the bond and the last that Harry felt before it vanished was a wistful caress of mind over mind.

Horace gripped Harry’s hand and they spun through space. Harry found himself kneeling before Snape, crying, shaking, while Horace attempted to apprise Snape of the situation. Snape, for once, kept his thoughts to himself and dragged Harry up. Harry fell onto him, sobbing, until Snape shook him hard and said urgently, “Potter, Potter, cease. Here.” He shoved his wrist towards Harry. The mark was still there. “He is alive. Pull yourself together.”

“The bond-” Harry explained, still disbelieving and yet desperate to believe.

“We will find out,” Snape told him. “Now pull yourself together. We must get you inside.” 

Together, Horace and he half-carried, half-walked Harry to the castle. 

——


	30. The day that never comes

Two weeks had passed. Two weeks of wandering Hogwarts’s empty corridors, hiding from Filch and Peeves and all the ghosts, slipping away from Minerva McGonagall’s sharp eyes, slipping away from Hagrid’s sight. Snape found him, persistently, during the night-time, and dragged him to one of the Slytherin Prefect bedrooms and forced down his throat what seemed to be a dram of Dreamless Sleep. Harry wondered if the potion was addictive. He decided that it did not matter. Flitwick had taken to joining him by the Lake, in the afternoons, and they walked quietly along the periphery of the water. Harry was grateful for the company, and more grateful that Flitwick had not spoken, because he felt that he was a word away from shattering. Even Snape seemed to know that, for he had been uncharacteristically careful around Harry. Then there was Fawkes, abandoning Snape and the dungeons for Harry. 

Horace had held off the Ministry, the Death Eaters and the Order, and Harry did not care what he had told them. He knew that Grindelwald needed to be dealt with, that every moment inactive was a moment closer to Grindelwald’s victory, but he felt drained of life and soul. Finally, Horace sought him one morning, as he lay in the dank-smelling bedchamber of the Slytherin Prefects, waking slowly from the Dreamless Sleep. 

“You are to give your version of the story today at the Ministry,” Horace told him quietly, sitting across him on the other bed. 

“All right,” Harry croaked, sitting up and holding the blankets against the chill of the dungeons. It was not enough. Voldemort had corrupted him with those bear blankets. 

“This was his bed, you know,” Horace said gently. “They shared this room, Abraxas and Tom.”

“Oh.” 

Harry could imagine that very well. Prefects both, rooming together in their easy camaderie before horcruxes and murder and marriage. 

“Abraxas was initially averse to sharing the room,” Horace reminisced. “I believe they eventually learned to get on. Tom was introverted but charming when he needed to be. Abraxas was more easy-going. Yet, when they reached puberty, it was the other way around. Tom was promiscuous. Abraxas was proper. Through all of that, they remained close. The touches and the smiles, the glances when they thought nobody was looking - everything pointed to more than friendship. Indeed, everyone suspected that there was more than friendship behind this door.”

“But there wasn’t,” Harry said thoughtfully. 

“The grapevine spoke of a strange bond. Sometimes by the lake, they could be found, with Abraxas reading to Tom, lying side-by-side, comfortable in proximity. In the common room, Abraxas taught Tom to play the piano, directing by touch. At balls, they often danced together, and blamed it on the wormwood concoctions that the Ravenclaws were fond of brewing then. There were rumours that Myrtle Warren and Rubeus Hagrid had seen something they had not been intended to see, and that it had lead to one dying and the other being expelled. You know how the school is - there are always rumours. Yet, Albus wondered. Sometimes, so did I. I suggested they room separately, to put rest to rumours, but neither of them wished to change the arrangement. Neither Armando nor I had the heart to chide them. I suspect they were intimate, but chaste, until many years later.” 

Harry wondered what it was like to have loved for a very long time before becoming physically intimate. He did not know. He suspected he would never know.

“Why do you think they were not involved?” Harry asked uncomfortably, feeling awkward about asking a man so old and unfamiliar. Yet, where else would he look to for answers? 

“Abraxas came to me after his father’s death, before his fifth year at Hogwarts, to seek my help in understanding the mandate of inheritance. He needed to marry and sire to inherit by magic, though he was the sole claimant of the Malfoy name and estate. He was a meticulous man, Harry. He funded Tom’s war for a very long time, before they had other channels of support and revenue. He could not have done that had he not inherited, had he not married and sired. He worked tirelessly on Tom’s behalf, putting into place a network of income sources spread across the Muggle and Magical domains, in our country and in places far-flung. They say that, once, Walburga criticised Tom’s ambitions saying that an anagram of a name was not enough to conquer. And Abraxas cut in, saying when he came into the Malfoy inheritance, Tom would have both the money and the connections. Tom was brilliant, but he was rarely practical. I don’t think he ever understood why Abraxas made him wait.” 

“Why didn’t Abraxas tell him that?” 

“You would have a better answer.” 

Harry suspected that he did. Voldemort loved obsessively and to the exclusion of all else. He would have gladly thrown ambition away to possess Abraxas. And Abraxas had decided to play the long-game, to wait it all out, to have everything instead of being orphans together with no names of worth, fortune or social significance. Abraxas had wanted to give Riddle the world, and he had.

“Ah, I cannot understand how Albus could watch all of you grow and grow old,” Horace remarked sadly. “I taught Charlus Potter and Walburga Black, I taught James and Severus both, I caught your godfather and his beautiful cousin so often in the Astronomy tower. Yet, all I can think of, when I remember my years of teaching at Hogwarts, is Abraxas standing before me, fierce and wan, inviting me to his marriage, and Tom slipping away after his graduation to the Forest, not to be seen amongst the departing, jubilant students waiting for the carriages, only to return at three in the morning, smelling of absinthe, drunk on grief that was more potent than any spirit he could brew, and asking me ever so solemnly if Abraxas had left the school yet. And then Abraxas had walked up to him, for he had waited patiently all day and into the hours of the night. He took Tom’s arm, and told him that he would wait as long as there was breath left in him. I had never seen Tom cry before. I don't believe he gave in to tears after that, in all the years of misery and cruelty he wreaked on us, until Abraxas was killed.” 

——

“He was very brave,” Harry croaked. 

Fudge blinked at him. In the room, listening to Harry’s every word, sat the members of the Order, including Remus and Mad-Eye who had arrived safely, many of the Death Eaters, and half the Ministry officials. 

“Why were you with him?” Kingsley asked.

“I had a task. I had to convince Horace Slughorn to return to our country.” 

Snape had drilled all the right answers into Harry, who had sat there half-comatose and obeyed Snape’s every instruction. 

“Don’t fuck this up, Potter,” Snape had muttered. “You can’t let anyone know.” 

“Why did he let you escape first?” Kingsley asked again. The only sound was that of Percy taking down notes.

“He told me that it was the terms of his agreement with the Ministry. That I was not to be in any battle until he was incapable of duelling.”

Harry could not get that last ephemeral caress out of his mind. He had spent days and nights using his paltry mental strength to push against the bond, only for it to touch something lying fallow and dead. Snape had taken pity, finally, and had taken to pushing back his sleeves when in Harry’s sight, once or twice a day, so that Harry could see the mark and reassure himself. 

As Remus dragged him out after the debriefing, Lucius came up to them again, reminding Harry of an earlier meeting where it had happened. 

“Bella would like a word with you,” Lucius said. Harry could not look away from the dark circles under the man’s eyes. 

“Your master is dead. Harry doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to,” Remus said sharply, pulling Harry closer. 

Dead. Harry searched his mind for their bond automatically. Gulping, he looked at Lucius and said hoarsely, “I will see her.” He turned to Remus and said, “We are bound by armistice until we are done with this war.”

—-

Bellatrix was in her gothic drawing room. She looked tired and her eyes were red-rimmed. 

“Hello,” Harry greeted her.

“We should find the Dark Lord,” she told him without preface.

“I don’t think we can get into Nurmengard,” Harry said quietly. “We can’t, until this war is over. Voldemort would not want us to. I cannot sense him through our bond.” 

“He is not dead,” Bellatrix said impatiently, drawing her sleeve and showing him her mark. “Your mark and mine testify to that. We need to find him urgently, Potter. I can sense great distress.”

“How?” Harry asked, frightened. He had assumed that Voldemort had closed the bond to prevent Grindelwald from knowing about the horcruxes, that Harry was one. 

“His occlumency shields are slipping,” Bellatrix said exhaustedly. “I suspect most of us marked can feel the distress. The magic is complex, but in essence those more loyal and accepting of his magic in our veins are likely to feel it more.”

“Nurmengard,” Harry told her. “Can we take the fortress?”

She shook her head pensively. Then she took a deep breath and said, “The sooner we win this war, the sooner we can go and find him in that wasteland. We must defeat Grindelwald, Potter. And we must not finish off his armies until we have the Dark Lord back. There will be no guarantee of his safety if the Ministry or the Order get to Nurmengard first.”

“You know,” Harry stated, suddenly realising that she had not even bothered to ask if he wanted to accompany her. 

“I have known for a very long time,” she said irritably, looking him up and down. “Your Occlumency is a mess and I saw what you did to Wormtail.” 

“I didn’t feel you in my mind,” Harry said suspiciously. He was terrible at keeping people out, but he was very good at sensing them in his head. 

“You wouldn’t have,” she told him. “I am a Black, Potter. Our house invented the arts of the mind. Why do you think insanity dogs our footsteps? They blame the incest, but all old houses indulge in that. This is what we pay for delving too deeply and greedily into the human mind. Magic pays in kind. In any case, even if your shields hadn’t been nonexistent, I would have still known. I have watched the Dark Lord for a very long time.”

“Oh,” Harry said, trying to wrap his mind around that. If she had known, why hadn’t she berated him over that yet? She did not think it was a good idea, did she? 

“Does anyone else know?” Harry asked cautiously. “Only, Dumbledore and Snape both saw it in my mind just like you did.”

If he wandered around with his shields being what they were, how many must have known? Mad-Eye? Rufus? 

“I informed the Inner Circle last week,” Bellatrix replied. “It was necessary for our planning. I suspect that your debriefing about the events at Horace’s homestead must have made many experienced Aurors think that you were lying about something, or that you were concealing something. I don’t think they are going to put the pieces together. It is difficult to, unless you know well at least one of the participants involved.” 

“How did they react?” Harry asked, frightened about it all. 

He had never thought that far ahead. Why would he have? Voldemort had a sense of life-preservation far more than Dumbledore had, and Harry had not expected him to duel Grindelwald outnumbered and outmatched in bloody Hungary. What was Horace Slughorn worth? 

“That brings me to another subject,” Bellatrix said, leaning forward and gripping his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. He closed his eyes quickly, hoping that would keep her out. 

“It doesn’t work like that,” she said angrily. “I don’t know what nonsense Snape has been teaching you. He was taught by Albus Dumbledore and Abraxas Malfoy, neither of whom were particularly rigorous about methods. They must have had some wishy-washy nonsense about closing your mind.”

Harry shrugged and moved back from her talons. He was sure that she was right, at least about this, because nothing Snape had taught him about the mind arts had stood him in much stead.

“Are you amenable to providing your memories of the duel?” Bellatrix asked. 

“But Snape saw it in my head. Horace was there too. And you must have seen it too in my head. What more do you want to know?” 

“Memories, Potter. Pensieve. The Inner Circle wishes to see it.”

“Sure,” Harry said uncomfortably. “I mean, I don’t really like the idea of someone replaying again and again what was one of the fucking worst moments of my life. If it is useful, though, I can do it. I will go to Hogwarts and fetch a pensieve. Where do you want to do it?”

“Malfoy Manor,” she said firmly. “There is a pensieve there.”

“I don’t want my memories inside that, coexisting with house-elf torture or whatever memories they keep in it,” Harry said firmly. “I will bring my own, thank you.”

——-

“Right,” Harry muttered, stepping back from Dumbledore’s pensieve. He glared at the quiet, hooded occupants around the table. “Right,” he said again, resisting the urge to wring his hands. “Once was enough for me. So I am going to leave now unless there is something else.”

He made for the door and stepped out, closing it firmly shut behind him. He was panting, as if he had run a long distance. He had once or twice had a panic attack when locked in the cupboard during storms. Vernon had called it a spoiled boy’s cry for attention. Yet even the thrashing had been better than being thrown back in the cupboard those nights. 

“Some scotch will not be amiss,” a familiar voice said then. “Go on, there is a liquor cabinet to your left.”

“Thank you, but alcohol makes me feel worse,” Harry said with a wan smile, looking up at the portrait. “I am all right now.”

“Harry, if I remember correctly,” the portrait asked. 

“Yes, I am Harry.” 

The feeling of desolation, that had been crippling him all these days, suddenly eased for an instant and he asked the portrait, “Is it true that you were high when this was done?”

The portrait affected a scandalised moue before saying merrily, “I must have been, because I imported fifteen peacocks, three lions and a cobra from India. Customs officials were not pleased. Neither was I, later. I palmed off the cobra on the Dark Lord, the lions were sent to the London Zoo by an anonymous benefactor, but the peacocks had to stay because they were an endangered species. They went forth and multiplied, and the Dark Lord quoted the Old Testament to rile me ever so often. I should have listened to him and served them for the Christmas feast that year.”

Harry could not help a grin despite the events of the last few weeks. 

“You should not fret so,” the portrait said then, eyes bright and face solemn. “He knows what he is doing, most of the time.”

“I know,” Harry said tiredly. “I am only worried that this is not one of those times. I am not you. I don’t know what to do next.”

The portrait stared at him carefully before saying, “Call Grindelwald to a duel. It is fairly self-evident, is it not?”

Duelling with Grindelwald had not solved anything so far. He could not be like Dumbledore and Voldemort. He needed to be here, defending London, making sure that what happened to them was not in vain. He was a figurehead, as much as he loathed being one. He was the binding of their armistice and necessary to hold the alliances together. Snape had drilled all of this into him until he could recite it in his sleep. 

Why was Abraxas suggesting this? For a moment, Harry feared it might be because of that legendary Black madness; did Abraxas want him dead? He shook the notion away, unable to correlate that to the charming man in the portrait. 

“I don’t think my chances are anywhere close to real,” Harry told the portrait. “It will solve most of his problems and none of mine.” 

The man in the portrait nodded and said, “I can understand why you would think so, Harry. All the same, I believe that is necessary. You might surprise yourself.” 

Harry shrugged. Then delicately, the portrait said, “It is important to remember that the most elemental magic is sometimes poorly understood. The Death Stick has a trail well known, but very little is known of its origin or of its make, apart from the tale itself.” 

“What do you mean?” 

The door behind them opened and Death Eaters started pouring out, most of them too involved in their intense discussions to take notice of Harry or the portrait. One of them, though, strode over.

“Ah, Severus, ever so flamboyant!” the portrait greeted him. “Won’t you take off your hood and mask, and greet me properly?” 

“You wore peacock feather hats. You are a fine one to talk about flamboyance,” Snape muttered, obliging the portrait. “I was told that the mask makes me more pleasing to look at.”

“I had to do something with the peacocks. And Severus, you should leave off looking to the late Sirius Black’s opinions for validation,” the portrait replied calmly. “It says more about you than about him that you are still considering those words relevant.”

“Enough of that,” Snape said grumpily. “I came to fetch Potter. He needs to return with me to the school.”

“Send Horace to me, Severus, won’t you?” the portrait asked charmingly. Harry was beginning to see why Riddle had adored this man. “Harry, if you will take a piece of advice from a well-wisher, might I advise you to think upon the course of action I suggested?”

“What foolhardy plan have you put into his head?” Snape demanded. “Abraxas, we have a plan. We don’t need to add complications.”

The portrait peered at Snape carefully and said in a quiet tone, “You will understand that I will leave nothing to chance, not where he is concerned.” 

“The Dark Lord is fine,” Snape said exasperatedly, peeling his sleeve back and waving the mark before the portrait. “Potter is stressed enough without your suggestions.”

“I am fine,” Harry cut in quickly. “Abraxas, I will think about what you said. Professor Snape, let us return to Hogwarts.” 

Snape huffed. Abraxas glared. Then Snape sighed and said, “You might hear of this from someone else later, Abraxas, but I wanted to tell you that the Dark Lord was very, very brave during that duel. He won, fairly, despite the odds.”

Harry swallowed as he remembered Voldemort under those Cruciatus curses, still persisting in his casting. Hoarsely, he said, “He did not give up, Abraxas, even when he was battered to the ground by torture.” 

“I visited him in Moldavia, once. I dragged him to a drinking hole and we wound up being attacked by vampire warlocks that night as we left the disreputable place. He won there, though it was night and their senses at their most acute, though he was poorly coordinated and cognitively in a poor state due to his lack of tolerance for liquor. He does not give up, Harry.”

Voldemort had outlasted Godric’s Hollow and Wormtail, Dumbledore and the Ministry, and the bloody Muggle war. He had survived Abraxas’s death. Harry nodded, not trusting his voice to remain steady if he spoke then.

Later, as Harry followed Snape up from the gates to the halls of Hogwarts, he thought about what Abraxas had said. 

“Do you think he wants me dead?” he asked hopelessly, knowing better to expect anything other snide remarks from Snape.

For once, Snape hummed thoughtfully, reminding Harry painfully of Dumbledore, before saying, “While it is possible, the portrait simply does not hold magic enough to carry that complete an imprint of his character. It is known that portraits only hold the most significant traits of a person and madness certainly was not one of his significant traits.”

“I guess that is reassuring,” Harry replied, thinking over Abraxas’s words again.

“That does not make his idea any better,” Snape continued in a darker tone. “Bella wants you to work with her. You can say no, since neither the Minister nor the Order will hand you over to her whims without the Dark Lord’s presence.”

Harry had no interest in working with Bellatrix Lestrange again, but he knew that she was his best bet. She was loyal to Voldemort, she was a fierce duellist, she knew about their intimacy and still would keep her mouth shut about it, and she was about as useful as Ron in brainstorming with her occasional flashes of insight. Hermione would be the best, really, but she would not be able to resist ferreting out the whole truth from Harry and that would not be ideal right then. It was a bit too late to come clean anyway, wasn’t it? Harry rued that but also was relieved that he would not have to explain any of this in any level of detail. 

“I can deal with Bellatrix,” Harry told Snape firmly. “She will be professional, at least until she gets her master back. She has a one-track mind.”

Snape shuddered delicately and gave him a look another might give a condemned man. Harry smiled at the theatrics and gave him a courtly bow similar to how he had seen Dumbledore doing. The association must have registered, for a potent mixture of pain and pleased surprise crossed Snape’s features. 

"The day that never comes, a Potter charming me," Snape muttered, quickly hiding emotion with sarcasm, as was his way.

"Metallica," Harry told him, thrilled as Snape's eyes widened in great surprise. "I may be an idiot, but at least I am one with good taste in music."

Snape choked back a startled laugh, before frowning at Harry in disapproval.

“You know where to find me,” he grumbled, making his way to the Entrance Hall in a swathe of black.

“I do!” Harry called after him, heart lightened mildly by Snape’s unexpected levelheadedness. 

Abraxas’s conversation had done Snape some good then. God, if Harry had to carry around that gilded portrait for the rest of this ordeal in order to keep Snape level, he would gladly do so.

—-


	31. Of Merlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry attempts grand and heroic rescues, in which Voldemort is down a rabbit-hole or two, in which wolves abound.

—-

Malfoy Manor was quiet, a giant slumbering. Harry briskly walked to the front door and before he could touch the brass knockers, they slid open and Narcissa stood there, the usual expression of contempt and worry mixed perfectly on her pretty face.

“Hello,” Harry greeted her. 

He did not know how to deal with women like her. Too pretty, too fragile-looking and too respectable. None of Hermione’s spark or Ginny’s curves or even bloody Bellatrix’s wildness. How had Voldemort managed to fuck Eloise? Harry knew Voldemort’s preferences in bed and knew that fragile blondness was not among them.

“I will take you to her,” she said briskly, offering him her arm regally. Harry amended his judgement. Perhaps she was not fragile, having Bellatrix as a sister, having been born a Black.

Harry was grateful for all the times he had been able to watch Dumbledore charm women, because there was no way otherwise that he would have known to take her arm with the minimal amount of contact and fuss, and accompany her down a winding, garden path. 

They eventually reached a clearing of sorts, which Harry assumed was an apparation point. He was proven right, because Narcissa dragged them through space until they were spat out on a dusty, grimy street familiar to him.

“Grimmauld?” he asked, horrified. Had Bellatrix managed to kill someone from the Order in a bid for revenge? 

“Black wards,” Narcissa explained distractedly, looking to and fro in worry, before dragging him to the threshold and knocking sharply. 

Kreacher opened it and urged them in, looking obscenely cheerful. Harry had an inkling of how that could have come about. 

Sure enough, Bellatrix was in the parlour, black poured over a newly upholstered leather couch, and glaring at a familiar wizarding atlas. The house suited her more than it had ever suited Sirius. Harry felt a pang of anger and grief seeing her loll about on the couch, perfect as a painting. Above her hung the Black family portrait, and it was askew. Harry wondered if she was terminally incapable of hanging portraits level to the walls.

Harry knew that an explanation would not be forthcoming from her, so he stared hopefully at Narcissa, who looked extremely put upon before saying, “Black wards overrode Dumbledore’s enchantments once he died. The order had to evacuate, since the house turned against them. So we were able to return. Bella likes it here.”

Harry wondered if Mr. Lestrange had no opinions about any of this. Presumably not. Narcissa bustled away and Harry heard the front door closing behind her.

“So,” Harry began tentatively. 

“There will be a full attack on London next Monday,” she said briskly, cutting him off. “We need to take Grindelwald captive.”

“What?” Harry asked, shocked. “I mean, how do we even defeat him? You know that wand! And what do you mean by taking him prisoner? I thought the agreement was that he needed to die.”

“Security!” she snapped. “I would desire nothing more than to flay him and salt him, and then shred him with the Cruciatus. I can’t, not until we have the Dark Lord safely returned. Don’t you understand? Once Grindelwald is dead, once his armies are defeated, there is no leverage. You are too powerful and owned by the Dark Lord, I am insane, and both of us will be put down before the dust from the battle settles. Nobody else has the right motivation to search for the Dark Lord. We must take Grindelwald captive, the war must go on, occupying Ministry and Order resources, and we must find the Dark Lord immediately.”

Harry sighed and pinched his nose. He could feel a headache start. It was unusual for him to have headaches from stress. His usual headaches were the sort instigated by Voldemort when trying to possess him. This was not an usual situation, was it? He was alone, except for Bellatrix, and he somehow needed to get Voldemort out of that black fortress. He had also promised Dumbledore that London would be left standing. He was aware that Bellatrix was right about the Ministry and the Order both wanting him secluded after the battle, so that they could run experiments on him to make sure that the enchantment of slavery had not turned him evil. He had the creeping suspicion that she was right about her fate too, that everybody would want her dead after the battle, once her usefulness was done.

“How is he?” Harry asked quietly, knowing by the tightening of her lips that it was not going to be a positive answer. 

“I believe time is of the essence,” she replied, not meeting his eyes. “We should plan our next move carefully.” Her composure cracked for an instant, and she said quietly, “He has a high tolerance for pain,and yet…”

“I will take the field,” Harry said then, before his brain even registered the words leaving his mouth. Bellatrix looked shocked. He took a deep breath and continued, “I must take the field. I must duel Grindelwald. Nothing else, nobody, else will be able to draw his attention away from Voldemort.”

Bellatrix looked truly taken aback, and her mouth opened and closed on unuttered words, and then she finally blustered, throwing her hands up in incomprehension, exclaiming, “How can you? How can you duel him? Because I shall be surprised if you even last bloody ten minutes! I didn’t! Albus Dumbledore didn’t! You are not ready! If you think throwing yourself into the path of that wand’s spell-fire is a good idea to retrieve the Dark Lord, you haven’t been thinking this through!”

Harry was surprised by her tirade. He had not expected her to give a thought to this, had expected her to favour action over inaction, had expected her to be a madder and evil version of Sirius. 

“My preparedness has nothing to do with the duel,” he said unnaturally calmly, trusting Abraxas, trusting Voldemort, trusting Dumbledore, trusting the gut instinct that made Hermione cringe every time it was invoked. “I am the last beacon that Grindelwald wants to crush. This is all that counts.”

“You are not his prophecy child,” Bellatrix pointed out. 

And what madness had possessed him, for Bellatrix to advise caution? 

“You do not have the training or the experience, or a wand that is his wand’s brother. Your mother’s love cannot save you. Dumbledore is dead. The Dark Lord cannot aid you. There is nobody left to die for you. As Snape says, you don’t the least knowledge of what is necessary to win a war.”

“You don’t have another plan,” Harry retorted. “The Ministry will tell me to duel him anyway, in the weeks to come, and they don’t care about Voldemort’s survival. Let me do it before that, let me do it while we still stand a chance of getting him out of there alive.”

Her eye-lids drooped as she turned inward to contemplate his mad notion. Harry took his eyes off her, moved them towards the askew portrait of her family. Sirius waved to him and pulled little Bellatrix’s ringlets of hair. She scowled at her cousin, though Harry felt that her heart was not truly in it. He walked towards the portrait and let his itching fingers do what they had wanted to for a long time: he straightened it until it hung level. 

“So be it. I will be your shield. You will listen to every instruction I give until you face him. You will not leap to any blind acts of nobility to save the helpless or the wounded. If you do that, it will cost you, and it will cost you more than your life; it will cost you his life. Can you do that?” She asked, resignation heavy on her features. 

“And nobody must hear of this. Too many, including those in my lord’s ranks, will oppose this madness. The Ministry and the Order both will keep you under lock and key should they hear this broached.” 

———

When Harry was returned to Hogwarts by Kreacher, he plodded his way to Flitwick. The Charms professor was deep in an ancient tome, with only fairylights to keep him company. When he heard the sound of Harry’s approach, he looked up with eyes wise and sad and knowing.

“He took Dumbledore’s body to Nurmengard,” Harry said quietly. 

“Albus was a powerful wizard,” Flitwick said, tracing his fingers over the runes he was reading. “I can feel his magic still on you. Fading yet present.” 

“Tell me about the Portkey charm. Where will a Portkey take me to if the destination is destroyed?” 

“I have no answers for you, Harry. It is likely to malfunction. Perhaps it may take you to Godric’s Hollow. Perhaps it may take you to the Forbidden Forest. Perhaps it may take you to the Hog’s Head.” 

“Keep Snape level.”

“Harry, you must reconsider. It is a rash course of action. The Order, the Ministry and even your master’s lackeys - all of them are powerful resources. We should consider a plan which takes this into account. Albus fought alone. There is no need for you to choose that path too.”

“This is my only course of action, Professor. Grindelwald will kill him before Monday, before he takes the field again. I am sure of that. If I can’t find him now, we have lost.”

“No, we haven’t. Good has always prevailed at the end. Heroes arise with the circumstances. Valour arises in times of fear.”

“Keep Snape level.” 

Flitwick sighed and stopped tracing his runes. He looked at Harry and said kindly, “There are multiple tracking charms on you, of varying complexities. It seems that the Ministry, the Order and the Death Eaters all are wary of your intentions.” 

“How long can you guarantee me?” 

“I have befuddled them for a few hours. Five hours at the most. Please utilise that wisely.”

“Thank you.”

“Your invisibility cloak will doubtlessly trigger the alarms. Try to refrain from using it. It is a powerful magical artefact. Often, dark spells are set to detect the amount of magical power passing through.”

The same might go for his wand too, Harry worried. One step at a time. 

———

When he walked into the Forbidden Forest, he tried breathing deeply and evenly, as Hermione had once tried for stress alleviation during exams. It did not help him. His stomach was tight and queasiness had settled high in his chest. 

One final time, before he touched the snitch-shaped button on his cloak, he shoved his mind ungracefully against the emptiness in the corners, reaching out, praying, seeking. 

Then the world swirled wild about him and he was on his knees somewhere dank and when he thrust his palms for support against the ground, his fingers touched bones and decaying flesh. He withdrew them fast but the stickiness remained on his skin. Darkness pressed against him from all directions. His first instinct was to throw a Lumos but he remembered Flitwick’s warning. No invisibility cloak, no spells. He gritted his teeth and felt along the ground again, seeking the wall. This time, his fingers hit glass cracked and as they skittered along the contours, they eked out the shape of familiar half-moon spectacles.

He would be back for the bones, for Dumbledore’s bones. He took a quiet breath and exhaled, and kept his fingers moving, until he reached the edges of a wall. Then he braced against it and rose to his feet. Something rustled across him. Terror leapt into his throat and his hand pressed against his wand in desperation. 

Breathing, panting. A rank smell. Then it howled. A wolf. He gripped his wand tight and made his way backwards. It had scented him. He was trapped. Gripping his wand, he straightened his spine. The beast’s eyes glittered like stars. His spell of fire, roared with fright, was answered by a deep, guttural snarl as the wolf leapt at him. He swirled away, as he had seen Bellatrix and Sirius do, with far less grace. He cast his spell again, remembering Lupin under the full moon, remembering Dumbledore’s blazing arcs of fire cast at Inferi, remembering Voldemort raining fire upon Grindelwald under the star-studded skies of the plains of Alfold. Jaws snagged on his robes as he spun away and cast again. Piercing pain shot through his body and he steadied himself on his left leg. The next spell blazed bright and the wolf veered away, into the wall, and the air smelled of burning flesh. Harry’s nostrils flared as he cast again, hating, afraid and determined. 

He did not look at the carnage he left behind as he walked on, leaning heavily on his left side, his wand held aloft, his thudding heart high in his throat, beset by anxious thoughts of what wards he must have triggered. Nothing happened. No guards rushed him. No more beasts. Only the silence and the darkness. And the stench of flesh. 

He stumbled on, through the narrow corridor leading away from that chamber. On the walls were runes he did not understand. On the ceilings were murals fading. He was able to make out the emblem of the Hallows more than once as he walked. His robes, drenched by his blood, dragged behind him and the rustle of them on the uneven floor unnerved him. Cobwebs clung stickily to his face and he resisted the urge to itch. Ron would not have liked this place. The thought brought him a shred of amusement and the next thing he knew was losing his footing at the next step, to fall through a hole down onto old crates that broke under his weight and gave away, and splinters cut cruel into his skin. The smell of blood and decaying wood filled his nostrils as he cast a Lumos and then shredded the crates to extricate himself from that pile. 

There was a creak, ominous and loud, across him, and somehow Harry sensed the men before he heard their footsteps. Gulping, he cast the strongest healing spell he knew on his right calf, and stumbled away in the opposite direction. He should have brought the cloak, despite the wisdom of Flitwick’s counsel. 

“Expelliarmus!” shouted one of the men and Harry swerved from the spell. 

There was more than one of them, and he could not run fast enough, not with his wounded leg. They cast a tripping jinx and he fell, crashing to the ground and winced as his spectacles broke, leaving him as good as blind. 

Magic built up intense in the chamber and Harry sensed the Killing Curse; he rolled away from its path, but the next beam of light was too quick. He closed his eyes and reached out to the bond one last time, thinking of his parents, of Sirius, and of Dumbledore.

An unearthly scream of fear resounded in the dungeon then, and he saw the shape of a woman standing between him and them, and a fallen form to the side, unmarked as the victims of the Killing Curse all were. 

“Go!” she shouted, throwing a powerful healing charm on his leg. Bellatrix. How had she tracked him? How had she followed him? 

He clutched his broken spectacles and cast a Reparo, before putting them on, and running away. Green burst behind him, the same green that haunted his dreams along with Lily’s sweet voice. He did not turn back. 

There was magic here, all around him. Ghosts rose up to meet him, silent and spectral. The sounds of the melee behind him had faded away. Now it was only the ghosts and Harry. Rita had written of them. The ghosts of Nurmengard. Grindelwald’s old victims. He gulped and ran onwards. There were cells on either side, and through the rusted bars he could see bones chained to the walls. He was the only alive creature in this tomb.

And then, he realised that he had reached the end of the corridor. Behind him, crowded were the ghosts. What would he do next? Returning was impossible. Bellatrix had been outnumbered. They must have raised the alarm. Wait here for them to find him? 

“Please,” he whispered, asking them. They remained silent. Some of them wafted through him. Some of them stayed where they were. Yet, he noticed suddenly, not one of them passed through the wall ahead of him. 

He remembered what Dumbledore had shown him in the Pensieve, about blood as entry in certain spells. Gulping, he slashed his palm and held it to the wall. He sensed magic. Yet nothing gave away. He heard sounds behind him. He saw the light of spells through the translucent ghosts.

“Expecto Patronum!” he shouted, thinking of his lover, thinking of how Voldemort had been sprawled supplicated underneath him beneath the stars of Hungary. The ghosts fled, men stood before him wearing the insignia of Grindelwald, and his stag walked ahead of him as protectively as it once had before the Dementors. He took a step back to brace himself against the wall only to find himself falling through. 

He fell on a bony form, still alive though emaciated to the threshold of death, and the rattling sound of his lover’s breathing made Harry’s gut clench in fear. He cupped his hands around the thin face, and even in the darkness, he could see unfocused red eyes roving about to pinpoint him.

“You are insane,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Voldemort’s forehead, dragging the shivering body to him. 

They were trapped here, and he knew the alarm had been raised. There was no escape. Harry felt himself remarkably calm despite all of that, and cast a steady Aguamenti with his wand pressed against Voldemort’s lips. He massaged Voldemort’s throat, as he had once seen Madam Pomfrey do to a patient whose sipping reflexes had been lost. Gently, steadily, he managed to get a few gulpfuls down. Then he cast a warming charm and hugged the shaking body. 

He felt Voldemort trying to speak, but failing. 

“Not Abraxas,” Harry said tiredly, warming Voldemort’s hands between his own. 

A thin laugh escaped Voldemort at that, quickly turning into a rasping cough. He clutched Harry’s hands tight as he rode it out. It broke Harry’s heart to hear that rattling sound, but he stayed quiet.

“Are you hungry?” he asked when it had passed. 

“Obscenely so,” Voldemort whispered, and Harry was anguished by how slurred his speech had become. “I managed to catch and eat rats in the beginning, but then there were no more.” 

Harry shuddered and unearthed the shrunken chocolate frogs that he had taken to carrying around after Dumbledore’s advice two years ago when they had first started the war against Grindelwald. He carefully broke off little chunks and fed them to the trembling form in the circle of his arms.

“Carefully, slowly,” he cautioned in vain. 

Voldemort was too hungry, too greedy, and Harry was reminded of Hermione speaking of poorhouses and desperately hungry orphans, and of how chocolate had tasted when Fred and George had brought him food in his second year in his aunt’s house when he had been starving and desolate. When Voldemort’s tongue came to lick his fingers clean, he withdrew them and broke off more chunks of chocolate to feed him. Perhaps exhausted by the effort of eating, he fell asleep in Harry’s arms. All Harry could think of, right then, was to flay Grindelwald. He nodded off in that uncomfortable position, despite the cold and his hunger.

—-

When Harry woke, he sensed Voldemort awake, though still and quiet in his arms. 

“Are you all right?” he asked gently, pressing a kiss to the nape of Voldemort’s neck. 

“As lucid as can be hoped for,” Voldemort murmured, shifting in the circle of Harry’s hold to face him. 

Lucid sounded good to Harry. He raised his head to kiss Voldemort on the lips. There was a slight hesitation in his partner’s movements.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“In some ancient cultures, enemies were sealed alive in tombs,” Voldemort replied. “Merlin was sealed in a tomb by Nimue, or so they sing.”

Harry had thought of that too, when falling asleep the previous night. He had read Rita’s book, about how Dumbledore had sealed Grindelwald alive in this castle. He wondered why Voldemort had brought that up. Perhaps it was one of those flights of fancy he was prone to. 

“I can do magic,” Harry stated, trying to point out what had been bothering him. “I shouldn’t be able to, should I?”

“There are spells to draw your magic into the bindings themselves, should you try to escape. This is how enchantments are often cast to bind and contain sorcerers. I daresay there would be very painful consequences if I had been foolish enough to attempt an escape. Indeed, here I can sense history, of sorcerers trying to cast and feeling life and magic being drawn away from them, into the enchantments themselves. This is often the nature of old magic, Harry. It feeds on its prey and grows stronger.”

A note of reluctant admiration had crept into Voldemort’s voice as he spoke. Harry shook his head fondly. Of course, Voldemort appreciated finesse and cleverness in spells. For all that he shouted Crucio as if he did not possess the ability to cast another spell, Harry had watched him duel Grindelwald with magic old and clever.

“You fought very well.”

“Survival is a great motivator.”

Harry wondered if it had been the only motivator. Voldemort had not needed to prove himself there. He had chosen to. He had chosen to draw Grindelwald out of Britain, to meet him on the great plains of Hungary.

And then he realised something else. “You are capable of wandless magic. And yet, you chose to remain hungry and cold.” 

Voldemort sighed and nestled deeper into Harry’s arms, pressing soft kisses to Harry’s neck. 

The bond lying fallow. It made sense then. Shocked, Harry clutched him close and whispered, “You can’t, can you?”

“I am enthralled to him, and my magic is gone. You see, Harry, in all my meticulous planning, I forgot about the lodestone. It was not sufficient to be the master of the wand, not while I was on my knees at his mercy, on Hungarian soil, soil that he has mastered. The earth and the winds obeyed him there, and I felt magic draining out of me into the soil itself.” 

Harry did not know what to say. There was a shred of desolation in Voldemort’s voice, despite the lightness of his tone, that made Harry want to rip Grindelwald into two. He took a deep breath and tried to focus, as Snape had tried to teach him to. 

“You can still sense magic.”

“I believe even a Muggle can. My father could, even though he had not an iota of magic in him. And in here, with old and powerful magic surrounding us, I am not surprised that I can sense magic.”

“The Dark Marks are still visible and clear. As are the runes on my body.”

“As is your scar,” Voldemort noted pensively. “Magic that I had chosen to give, whether it be for purposes noble or terrible, is still present, if only because it was not mine anymore after the moment I had given.”

“Then he knows about our bond. He destroyed it!”

Voldemort did not reply. 

“You did it?” Harry asked, aghast. 

“The bond was a part of me, tied to you, by magic that was ours. When he mastered me, I knew he would find the bond, so I cut us apart. It was the last magic I cast, and it was purely instinctive. I had to protect you, because I knew I had lost any ability to do so.”

It was the same instinct that had wandlessly healed Abraxas, the same instinct that had led young Riddle to crash into his father’s memories, the same instinct that had given the runes to Harry. Voldemort had wanted to protect him, with the last of his magic.

“He will come for us soon,” Voldemort muttered. “They must have alerted him. They will not enter and kill us until he gives them the order.” 

“We should go out and face them,” Harry replied quietly, thinking of Bellatrix desperately. “I don’t want to be killed here. I don’t want to wait for Grindelwald.” 

Perhaps she had raised the alarm? Surely her sister must have tracked her down. Narcissa seemed very shrewd. 

“We cannot face them. I cannot protect you. I doubt even my ability to walk,” Voldemort said wryly. “Hush now, let me think.” 

Harry frowned. He did not think there was any other option. He did not want to wait for Grindelwald there. Voldemort had suffered enough. Perhaps it was fated, that Dumbledore and Voldemort and Harry all would die here, forgotten in this tomb. And it did not frighten him. He was not alone. Dumbledore had been alone and the wolves had torn him apart. He steeled himself for one last spell before his wand was torn from him. He would not let the wolves touch Voldemort. He would not let anyone harm Voldemort more. Perhaps it was what the prophecy had meant all along. He inhaled sharply and a weight settled deep in his chest. Fiercely, full of love, he kissed Voldemort deeply on the lips.

“I have a mad notion, but I wonder if you might humour me.”

Harry laughed and then winced when the shrillness of it registered. Voldemort ran a distracted palm to soothe over his back. 

“Anything for you,” Harry whispered and his voice cracked on the words. He was so glad that Voldemort was not in his mind, that the bond was gone, that there was no magic left for Legilimency, nothing to warn Voldemort about the course of action he was prepared to take. “Anything at all.”


	32. A lay of Robespierre and Fagin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry finds out that Fagin too had something to teach, and terror touches even those who had once commanded it.

——-

“Maybe he will let us be,” Harry said despondently. “Maybe it will satisfy him to let us die.”

Voldemort had retreated into his thoughts, eyes unfocused and lips slightly parted. 

“He cannot. He needs a body, your body, to get Britain to surrender,” Voldemort muttered. “As long as there is hope, they will fight. And you are the last hope.”

And good riddance to that, Harry thought angrily. He had no qualification, no training, no wisdom. How was he to serve as anyone’s last hope? 

“Can I help you think? How long do we have?” 

“I am trying to remember the sequence of control. He bound the lodestone to the soil, built this castle, and then he mastered the wand. When Dumbledore fought him and won the wand, he was also able to seal Grindelwald here. The lodestone had posed no opposition. I wonder why. This is old magic, but old magic is often as simple in its working as it is powerful. There is something I fail to understand here. I miscalculated, but I cannot fathom yet what my mistake was. Perhaps-”

The walls glowed a bright white. Voldemort’s eyes widened in fear and he clumsily staggered to his feet. Gone was that grace Harry had adored. Gritting his teeth, Harry rose to his feet as well, wand tight in his hand, pushing Voldemort behind him protectively.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Voldemort said tersely. “I am touched by the chivalry but you cannot win here.” 

There was a resounding shatter and the walls gave away. Grindelwald stood there, thin and tall, the Death Stick in his outstretched right hand. Harry threw out his left arm to make sure Voldemort did not try to do anything foolish. He cast the most powerful Shield Charm he could, on Voldemort. 

“He is a wiser man than you are, Harry Potter,” Grindelwald remarked. 

“I will take my chances, nonetheless.” 

Harry bowed quickly and threw his first Disarming spell. The Death Stick parried easily. Grindelwald cast him a pitying smile before raising his wand in offence. Behind Harry, Voldemort stood deathly still, and when Harry swerved to avoid a red beam of light, he saw the frightened expression on Voldemort’s face. Harry pushed that image away from his mind and turned back to Grindelwald, to throw curses and to swerve away as Bellatrix once had from the powerful retaliation. 

The wand had not woken yet. It would, soon. Too late did he see the expression of horror on Voldemort’s features as a blue beam tripped him and sent him crashing to the ground, throwing his wand a few feet away from him. Grindelwald summoned the wand and then walked towards him. 

“A pity. You did not last as long as I had expected you to. You first, or shall I let you watch?” Grindelwald asked. “I am afraid I have broken him utterly. The men complain there is little sport left to be had. Death would be a mercy, yet he has stubbornly refused to ask for it.” 

Harry tried to focus, as Snape had tried to teach him, in vain, to summon his wand back from Grindelwald. 

“I do wonder why Albus left you woefully unprepared.”

Sometimes, Harry wondered the same. He bit his lips and tried to focus harder. 

“You first, then. It will break what is left of him,” Grindelwald murmured and lifted his wand. 

The retort of the gun was loud in the dungeon. The bullet ricocheted off the corners of the broken walls. Grindelwald turned swiftly, to face Voldemort, who stood there shaking, his fingers convulsing badly on the gun, betraying his shattered muscular coordination. The next bullet hit its aim, boring through Grindelwald’s outstretched wrist, causing the wand to skitter away to the floor. The next one found its mark too. 

Grindelwald’s soft sound of surprise as he crumpled, clutching his ribs, was still louder to Harry’s ears. Harry scrambled to his feet, first gathering his wand, and then running to Voldemort, who was emptying the chamber, bullet after bullet, fear and anger etched deep on his wan features. The gun fell to his feet when it was emptied, and he crumpled down as Grindelwald had, sobbing hoarsely, shaking as if he were a leaf in a wind. 

“Please, please,” Harry whispered, grabbing him and then immediately recoiling, from the electricity that blazed on his skin. He watched, helpless, as Voldemort wailed and wept, hands bleeding from his nails as he clutched at himself. It seemed to last for a lifetime, and Harry was about to go to him, again, regardless of the consequences, heart-broken by the pain he witnessed. 

As he reached out to touch Voldemort again, fullness woke deep in him, and his soul opened like parched earth welcoming the first rains, and he giggled madly as his soul was swallowed softly, silently, by a kindred one, familiar and dearly mourned, and then Harry was crying too. 

“Have I told you that I am an excellent pickpocket?” Voldemort asked him, through tears and laughter, pulling him close, and Harry winced as he felt his lover’s body trembling from the aftershocks of the magic coursing from the earth into his veins.

“Did Fagin teach you too?” Harry asked, wiping the tears off the beloved face, smothering him with scattered kisses, and laughing as he thought of Hermione’s valiant attempts to explain the stories of Charles Dickens. 

“Aren’t you full of surprises?” Voldemort asked, managing to throw him a coy glance despite the bone-deep exhaustion evident on his face.

“I can conjure rabbits out of hats too.”

Voldemort frowned and his eyes slid away. 

“Are you all right?” Harry asked, concerned, bringing his shield charms up by instinct around them.

Something nudged his left calf. He turned to see a pale, scrawny rabbit. 

“I can conjure rabbits out of rodent bones,” Voldemort remarked, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder. 

“You are impossible,” Harry fondly remarked, thrown back to his treasured memories of their competitiveness in their bed. He sighed. “We should get out of here. You need medical attention and my healing spells are half-arsed at best.”

He needed to find Dumbledore’s bones, to take them back to Hogwarts. And Bellatrix. He gulped. He wondered how many wolves were loose in the dungeons. Were the men still there? Grindelwald must have sentries throughout the castle. How many were there? How capable was Voldemort? Harry was sure that Voldemort would see them through any fray, but he did not want to worsen Voldemort’s pain. The lack of coordination made him suspect the worse, coupled with what Snape had once told him about the extensive nerve damage.

“Hush, Harry. Cease fretting. I have you now,” Voldemort murmured, barely coherent. 

He hadn’t needed magic to protect Harry. He had killed with his heart. Harry sighed. So too would he have done, if it had come to that. He had been determined that Grindelwald would not harm his lover again, even if it had taken Harry a spell of green mercy to end it. What cost his soul when he could have spared Voldemort suffering more than he had? Had Trelawney seen this? Had Dumbledore imagined it would have come to this? 

And that was how Snape found them, entwined in the dank dungeon, with Harry’s robes soaked in Grindelwald’s blood, with Grindelwald’s corpse splayed wide beside them, with the wand of death at the threshold of the dungeon. Harry’s grip tightened on Voldemort’s sleeping form protectively.

“Bellatrix is alive, though badly injured,” Snape announced without preface. “She had powerful tracking charms on you, and Filius deliberately did not remove them. And luckily, for us all, her sister had powerful tracking charms on her.” 

“Who else is here?” 

“The Order. They are clearing out the catacombs. Grindelwald’s men are surrendering.”

“I want him safely taken home,” Harry said quietly. “They must not know he is here. They must not know he is incapacitated.”

“Potter, why do you think I arrived here first?” Snape asked with asperity. “I have a portkey.” 

“No,” Harry said quickly, thinking of Lily and Dumbledore, and Snape’s betrayed look when he had seen Harry’s runes first. “No, let me make one. I learned how to.”

Snape raised his eyebrows warily. Harry gripped his wand, reached out to the bond, barging without courtesy or grace. Voldemort startled awake and his eyes focused on Snape dimly. Snape reared back, looking terribly discomfited. Then he glared daggers at Harry.

“Make a portkey to Rheims,” Voldemort ordered feebly. “I shall recuperate there, Severus.” 

“As you wish, my lord. Perhaps the boy-”

“Harry stays with me. ”

“I could first see to you,” Snape suggested again.

“Today, then. Harry can manage after that.”

——

At Rheims was an old estate, small and neatly maintained. The fields had irises and hummingbirds flitted through the tall stalks. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass. There were cows idling on the pastures. Bumblebees made their way occasionally indoors through the open bay windows, going back when Harry shooed them away. There were lacy doilies everywhere, in charming disarray, and the old housekeeper had muttered something about not having anything better to do with her time when Harry had asked about that. 

He flipped his fingers in salute to the familiar portrait in the large dining room. Abraxas, all of nineteen there, winked and saluted in response, carrying off the periwinkle house-coat with elan very few men could have matched. 

He continued onwards, whistling under his breath the catchy refrain of the Edith Piaf song that he had been hearing constantly over the past few weeks, thanks to the housekeeper’s tendency to sing while cleaning and cooking, and edged open the door with his hip.

“Maid-service!” he announced, bringing in the plate of scones and the tea-service he had procured.

“You would look fetching in a maid’s uniform,” Voldemort remarked, putting his papers aside to leer up at Harry. 

“So would Fudge,” Harry parried, buttering up a scone carefully, taking his time about it. He could afford to take the time, couldn’t he? “He ought to be grateful enough to take on that small service for you.”

“When did you turn into such a guileful creature?” Voldemort wondered, opening his mouth dutifully for the scone Harry proffered.

“It must be your fault,” Harry decided, brushing crumbles off the corner of Voldemort’s lips. “I was a hero before I met you.”

“You are one still,” Voldemort assured him. “The most heroic hero I have encountered.”

“I suppose you must have encountered a few in your line of work,” Harry remarked, sitting down on the edge of the bed and then turning to swing his legs across Voldemort’s lap. 

Voldemort put the book away and leaned forward to take another bite out of the scone, reminding Harry ever so much of the first time he had licked the come daintily straight off Harry’s cock. He pressed an impulsive kiss to Voldemort’s cheek and stumbled out of the room, mind suddenly overcome by the experiences of the past few weeks. 

He found his way to the lush meadow outside, and crashed atop a bale of hay, much to the disapproval of the indolent cows. The wind caught the laundry hung on the long clotheslines and he watched them flutter aft and to. 

He had arrived at Rheims on a dark and dismal night, and it had been storming. A cow had been in labour and its agonised moaning had rent the pitter-patter of the rain. Snape and he had half-carried and half-dragged Voldemort into the house, and they had only made it as far as the grand-chaise in the entrance hall. Snape had sent Harry to the kitchens, barking at him to fetch hot water and towels. He had scurried away, and when he had returned with the requested items, he had found Snape casting healing spells and pouring vial after vial of potions down Voldemort’s throat. 

“He reacts badly to the wormwood,” Harry had said, standing there at the threshold. 

“Do you have an alternative? Perhaps your heart? Dumbledore was always convinced that the key to the mysteries of the universe lay in your heart,” Snape had said tiredly, as if even sarcasm sapped him of strength. 

It had been a long search. Later, Harry would learn that it had also been a long battle, laying siege to the Black Castle, until they could storm and take it, until Snape could mount a rescue. Many had died.

The next few days had been difficult. Harry had taken on the task of caring for his patient as best as he could, but Voldemort had slipped in and out of fever-dreams, often mistaking him for Abraxas, pleading with him, uttering nonsensical statements about Robespierre and a Reign of Terror that had taken him too. Harry had not called in Snape, afraid to, unwilling to let anyone see Voldemort that incapacitated. He could not put a finger on why, but he knew they were best off on their own. The Minister, Remus, Mad-Eye, Flitwick, McGonagall, and Malfoy had all contacted him, but Harry had not responded. He had written to Ron and Hermione, and to Mrs. Weasley, to tell them that he was safe, and that he would see them soon. He had heard from Snape’s occasional epistles that matters were in hand in Britain. Snape had warned him to not step off the estate. Perhaps there were still legions in France, loyal to Grindelwald, pillaging and massacring. He did not know. He did not attempt to find out, as he nursed a hallucinating, emaciated, feverish Voldemort to convalescence. The bond was wild, full of nightmares and unvoiced fears, and it had exhausted Harry to attempt to soothe the soul that was linked to his own.

Snape had appointed the housekeeper. She was a rotund lady in her seventies, pampering Harry with scones, and chiding him in a mixture of French and English when he left his dinner plate untouched. She had taken to bringing him flowers wrapped in doilies, and leaving them at their bedroom door. Harry suspected that she was too afraid of Voldemort to enter. 

The fever had finally broken that morning, and Harry had wept when he had seen the lucidity return to Voldemort’s eyes after weeks of hallucinations. 

“For the love of God, I am not Abraxas,” he had said tiredly, bending to press a soft kiss to Voldemort’s forehead.

“Harry, my hero, so full of grace,” Voldemort had whispered, in a voice scratchy and weak, and when his fingers, trembling, still poorly coordinated as they healed from long-term nerve damage, had reached up to brush Harry’s chin, Harry’s worries dissolved like snow flakes under the morning sun.

Harry sighed as he dropped his head back on the bale of hay and looked up at the puffy, white clouds floating by without a care. 

“There you are!” Voldemort called out. 

Harry propped himself up on his elbows and looked disapprovingly at the duo making their way towards him. Voldemort had somehow managed to convince the housekeeper to fetch him a cane. Supported by the cane on one side and the stolid woman on the other, he painstakingly made his way towards Harry. Harry groaned as Voldemort spoke to the woman sweetly and rapidly in French. She laughed, seeming ten years younger, flattered by whatever compliment the conniving bastard had decided to shower her with. Her footsteps were lighter as she made her way back to the house, and Voldemort looked up at Harry expectantly, somehow managing to look charming despite the cane and the thin bed-clothes he wore.

“Can’t leave you alone a moment before you start charming them,” Harry muttered, before leaping down the bale to support the irritating man.

“Clara used to be one of the seasonal employees here, long ago, mon cygne mignon,” Voldemort told him, tracing a long finger down the line of Harry’s neck, until it touched the runes. 

“Yes, well, I think that works better when your target speaks the language,” Harry said wryly. “If she knew you, why was she so terrified?” 

“I suspect I was culpable. I did spend a year here after Abraxas died, Harry.” 

Ah, yes, that terrible year. Harry suspected that Voldemort had possessed little in the way of sense or sanity during that era. 

“Eloise used to visit me often, bringing me books and tea. She was convinced that French teas were inferior.”

“She was right,” Harry said, with great feeling. He liked the coffee a great deal. The tea, however, was nothing to write home about. “I don’t know how you can drink that swill.”

—- 

Later that night, after Voldemort had fallen asleep, Harry did his rounds of the house. Abraxas’s portrait, usually chatty, was snoring daintily. Harry grinned. Abraxas, at nineteen, had been full of himself, cocky and sure, and still cautious and kind. Perhaps Sirius had been like that too, at nineteen. Over the winding staircase, at the landing, hung another portrait, smaller and set in a frame of rosewood. The subject was watching Harry shyly.

“Lady Eloise,” Harry greeted her softly. “You are awake?”

He had never seen her awake before. Perhaps she had been, and had pretended otherwise. She smiled at him uncertainly, and her eyes were the brightest blue he had seen. Ron would have adored her. Slender like Narcissa, but with none of the latter’s self-assured air, Eloise in the portrait was young and diffident, blooming still into an adult, eyes soft and trusting. It was still years before she would become a caricature in Wizarding society, a timid woman who had been shunted away by her husband in favour of a powerful lover, a woman who had then lost her mind when her husband had died. She reminded him of Ariana, who had come between powerful men only to die. 

“My name is Harry.”

She dipped her head in acknowledgement. 

“I am pleased to meet you,” Harry told her warmly, feeling a need to protect her, as he often did when he saw Hermione. 

She blushed and turned her face away, shy. Harry shook his head, smiling, and continued his rounds of the house, a ball of warmth nestled tight in him from that meeting. She had been a joy, until they had torn her apart, and thinking of her tragedy, the warmth in him was then tempered by sorrow.

He wondered what Snape had told the Ministry, the Order, and the Death Eaters. Did they know where he was? Did they know anything about Voldemort’s state? Had Snape fed everyone misinformation, as was his way? 

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delays. I apologise so much. I had somehow lost my way on a number of fronts and needed to sort it all out before getting back to this. I will finish up fast, I promise!


	33. Of Endymion and Selena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A thing of beauty is a joy forever, and other notable points from Keats, make their way into Harry's education

It was a scene from one of Petunia’s television shows, Harry thought, as he carefully spread the raspberry jam on a slice of fresh-baked bread. The housekeeper bustled in and out, bringing to the table eggs and tea, and then oranges. Across him sat Voldemort, ignoring the meal and instead reading a copy of Le Figaro. He seemed to be remarkably inept at handling the newspaper, because pages slipped through his fingers each time he rustled the paper to straighten it out. Harry supposed not everyone had Uncle Vernon’s newspaper-handling skills. Amused by the comparison, he shook his head and poured himself tea from the fresh pot. 

The housekeeper bustled in again, this time bringing something that smelled scandalously sublime, and she set the pot before Voldemort. The newspaper came down abruptly and Voldemort sighed in pleasure. 

“Food first,” Harry said mildly, watching Voldemort pour himself the coffee with barely contained enthusiasm. 

He sent the housekeeper a glare. She giggled and continued watching Voldemort’s happy sighing with accomplishment writ large on her lined face. Voldemort must have sensed Harry’s disapproval, because he quickly reached out for the loaf of bread and cut off a meagre slice. Harry decided to let it be. The domestic peace, as Petunia was fond of saying, was the most important priority. He moved to grab an orange. 

As he peeled it open, Voldemort asked, “May I have the skin?”

Harry shrugged and passed the peel over. His eyebrows flew up when he saw Voldemort nibbling at those daintily. 

“They taste heavenly with dark chocolate,” Voldemort mentioned, throwing a calculated look at the housekeeper. She nodded vigorously and rushed to the kitchen, no doubt to cater to this latest whim and feed him dark chocolate covered orange peels, likely on a lace doily. Harry shook his head and was about to comment when an owl swooped in towards him, bearing a letter. He looked at Voldemort, but the man was busying himself with breakfast, not betraying the least amount of curiosity. 

It was Remus. A summons. Harry scanned it quickly. Foreboding, which had been present in him ever since Snape had brought them here, rose higher again. The letter was purposely vague, mentioning only the briefest sentences about the politics and the current scenario in Britain. 

“We should return,” Harry broached the matter carefully. 

Voldemort said peaceably, “It is shaping to a lovely day outside. I plan to walk to the brook nearby and swim. Perhaps I shall teach you to fish.” 

Right. This had been the pattern for the past few weeks. Voldemort had not tried to distract him with sex, as had been their norm. Instead, he had delighted in showing Harry the countryside around them, teaching him to milk the cows and to herd the goats.

Harry’s favourite had been the falconeering. The brown falcon that had taken to him was young and curious. A fledgling, the kestrel flitted in and out of the trees, with Harry running behind, laughing in joy, and when the bird had dived deep and low to kill a small rodent, Harry had marvelled at its visual acuity. 

Voldemort had arrived after him, out of breath, still convalescing, but laughed pleased when Harry pounced on him, pushed him against the bole of the mahogany tree behind them, and kissed him until his arms were wrested in pleasure against Harry’s waist. 

“Now you know how to hunt,” Voldemort had declared then, and had walked away smiling.

Harry was surprised by the lack of sexual activity, but Voldemort seemed to be content and at peace, so he assumed that everything was fine. Harry watched Voldemort sipping the dregs of his coffee. Perhaps there was something going on, but Harry decided it was not worth dragging it out of Voldemort at that point, not while their interactions were pleasant and Voldemort seemed to be genuinely happy in Harry’s company. It had surprised Harry. He had never imagined that his company could be sufficient for someone, for days at a time. Hermione and Ron had always sought each other’s company, even if they enjoyed spending time with him. He racked his memories, to seek if anyone had been found it sufficient to only have his company. Was it healthy? What was that word Hermione was fond of using? Codependency. 

“I was unaware that deep thoughts are a part of the hero’s arsenal.”

“Oh, was this too a part of the curriculum at Hogwarts once?” Harry asked, too used to Voldemort meandering in and out of his thoughts. 

“You should go to London,” Voldemort said, changing the subject abruptly. 

Harry waited patiently. Patience. He had learned that virtue in his dealings with Dumbledore, out of necessity. Voldemort watched him carefully, no doubt waiting for him to ask questions. 

“Who taught you falconeering?” Harry asked, knowing that direct questions rarely brought him answers. “Abraxas?”

“Abraxas was not a hunter. He despised blood,” Voldemort said, his eyes betraying his curiosity about Harry’s misdirection. “I learned it from a German austringer, Wilhelm, who once passed through the village I was staying near Kraichgau. It was winter. I had been deep in my studies. I had walked through the forests, in ankle-deep snow, harvesting ingredients for a few potions. I was cold and weary, and had been about to Apparate away, when his falcon found me and alerted him. Wilhelm found me then, and I remember his dogs surrounding me, growling, until he decided that I was harmless, and he took me to his blazing fire, and wrapped me in furs and leather, and cursed me in fluent, harsh German for being nine kinds of a fool to venture outside in such inclement weather. I was hardly in a hurry to go home, since Abraxas was celebrating the birth of his child, and I had little to do. So when Wilhelm said he would take me to Kraichgau, I said I wanted to learn his craft. He laughed and told me that his arms were as good a place to hide as anywhere else, but that I would have to return and face whatever I was running away from, one day. To him, I had been transparent. He had never slept with a man before, but he found me handsome. There was something wild about the woods, perhaps, and the thrill of the hunt that was his daily life then, that he chose to put aside his aversion to the notion of sleeping with a man and gratuitously indulged. He was a surgeon and an artist as well. It made him a supremely methodical lover, who was also spontaneous in his outbursts of passion. It surprised me so. I was used to being an object of desire. Many men and women had wanted me. Yet, I had not known before what it meant to be viscerally desired. He said he liked anatomical excellence and often had me pose for him, on wolf pelts under the stars, wearing only the bruises and marks his hands and teeth had adorned me with. He often asked me to run and hide at the crack of dawn, bare of body, with only leather pattens on my feet, and then he would hunt me, with his wolves and falcons. I learned to run faster and to hide better, from him, from the boars and the wolves and the foxes that roamed freely in the wild. There was no hiding from his falcons though. Sharp their eyes were and tireless their wings. No cave or tree branch could hide me from them. When he caught me, he would roar exultant, the falcons would snap their powerful beaks, and the dogs would nip at the heels of my shoes, growling. Ah, he was a man that enjoyed the chase. I learned to hunt and to fish, to skin game, to follow the polestar and to make a fire even when it was snowing hard. It was the longest I had gone without magic. He was a sharply intelligent man, so I knew even wandless, wordless magic would warn him about something amiss. He was remarkable, capable of dissecting Wittgenstein and Nietsche one moment, and then hunting wild boars with his dogs and falcons the next. When I took leave of him at Kraichgau, he asked me to be careful. Why? I asked him. He quoted the Book of Job, telling me that my path would be one that no bird of prey knew, nor had any falcon’s eyes ever perceived it.”

Harry blinked and sat back. Each time he thought that he had heard all of Voldemort’s tales, another came up, to surprise him, to scandalise him. 

“You trusted a man like that?” he asked, frightened slightly by the fondness and remembered passion which had coloured Voldemort’s words.

“Harry, he was a strong brute of a man who also happened to be blessed with intelligence and intuition.” 

“And you liked how he fucked,” Harry pointed out, getting to his feet. Voldemort nodded graciously and reached across to grab Harry’s knife and licked the raspberry jam right off. “For God’s sake! I have a Snape to find and a Fudge to appease. I should be off,” Harry muttered. “Only, now I can’t get this out of my head!”

“The housekeeper went off to the village to buy dark chocolate,” Voldemort offered, rising to his feet and taking off his robes. 

“Good,” Harry said fiercely, aroused and confused by how Voldemort had moved from swooning over his coffee, to recounting a tale of debauchery in the German forests, to stripping at their breakfast table. 

Their last episode of sex had been on the plains of Hungary and Voldemort had handed him over to Slughorn before heading to meet Grindelwald. Then had followed days and days of Harry weeping and wondering, worrying, until he had gone to the black fortress, until he had killed a wolf and found Dumbledore’s decaying corpse, until he had spoken to the ghosts of Nurmengard and found Voldemort broken and hollow, enslaved, begging for sustenance. He had tried to defend, and had lost, and Voldemort had shot Grindelwald, and fallen to his knees overwhelmed by the magic returning to his blood. Snape had lost many men in that rescue, and had brought them here, and Harry had spent weeks nursing Voldemort to convalescence, alone, except for Voldemort’s delusional ravings about Abraxas. Then Harry had worried about the situation in London, about his friends and about the political ongoings, about Hogwarts, and Voldemort had methodically distracted him with the bucolic pleasures of this countryside. Now finally, when Harry had been prepared to go to London, Voldemort had segued into this tale of Wilhelm the Savage, and now stood before Harry bare and waiting, an odd sort of triumph glinting in his eyes no doubt related to how he had managed to bait Harry into possessive, passionate fury. 

“Walk to the stables,” Harry said quietly, his voice shaking from the emotional turbulence that overwhelmed him them.

Voldemort raised his eyebrows, and was about to speak, when Harry cut in saying, “No, I don’t care if she returns with the damned chocolate and sees you walking nude to the stables. I don’t care if that portrait of Eloise sees you from the landing. Yes, you will have to walk past that portrait of Abraxas in the entrance hall. I don’t care. You are mine and you will do what I ask you to.” 

A near-imperceptible shudder touched Voldemort’s body and he nodded, turning and walking away, leaving Harry to follow, admiring the long, clean contours of the body he had worshipped so many times, that he had nursed back to health. He wondered about Wilhelm. Riddle must have been in his twenties, handsome and charming. Harry had no desire for Riddle at all, but he wondered how the man must have looked, running through the woods, in the moonlight, naked, all whipcord muscles and youthful vigour, unkempt and wild. 

“He said I reminded him of Endymion, beloved to the moon, beneath her soft rays,” Voldemort said helpfully then. 

“You are impossible,” Harry said, laughing, gathering his naked lover into his embrace to kiss him deeply. Oh, this man! Whatever had brought them here? All thoughts of London and Snape fled his mind.

When they reached the stables, Voldemort shuddered and said softly, “I haven’t stepped into a stable in a very long time.” 

Abraxas had died in the stables, Harry remembered then. Voldemort had been forced to watch as the horses had torn him apart. Voldemort’s recent behaviour finally made sense to Harry. Rheims had been where he had come after Abraxas’s death. With the memories so thick and heavy upon him, little wonder that he had chosen to not initiate sexual encounters there.

Shocked, Harry was about to blurt an apology, when Voldemort turned to face him and said with an unnatural amount of calm, “I must be truly yours then, to have obeyed so easily.”

Harry felt his breath catch, his eyes stung suddenly, and he felt so inadequate that all he could think of was to pepper his lover’s face with kisses uncoordinated and fierce. Voldemort yielded, a strange serenity on his features, his hands coming to clasp tight in the curls of Harry’s hair, firm but gentle. Harry pushed him against a stall door, and around them the horses neighed in displeasure, but Voldemort did not protest, not when Harry sucked and left bruises down the line of his neck, on his breast, down in a line to his navel. He did not protest when Harry gripped his waist tight and sunk to his knees, to lick and lave at his cock, to bite and suck on the sensitive skin on the inner side of his thighs. He devolved into soft groans and bitten-back cries of passion, his fingers curling and uncurling at the base of Harry’s neck. He was close, Harry could tell, by the staccato breathing, by the tension in his legs, by eyes that were flared and unfocussed. Harry pulled back, and Voldemort tensed, on the verge, before exhaling deeply and looking at Harry askance. 

“I understand there is a particular position favoured inside stables,” Harry said, drawing soothing circles on Voldemort’s thighs. 

Voldemort frowned, undoubtedly too removed from reason to remember their old conversation on that meadow. 

“Farm animals,” Harry reminded him with a fond smile. “That is how they breed. On your fours. Let me mount you.”

Amusement flitted across Voldemort’s features and he said in a lust-broken voice, “Oh, you are impossible.” 

They both were, weren’t they? Harry wondered. Voldemort staggered away from him, still addled by Harry’s cock-sucking expertise, and managed to gracefully fall to his knees and then leaned forward to balance himself on his palms. 

“Beautiful,” Harry whispered, running his hands over the offering of taut, flushed, warm skin, so scarred, all his to mark and tend to in that moment. He kneaded the backs of the thighs and Voldemort shifted back, seeking more. He smiled and bit into the arse cheeks, one after the other. 

“You have an arse fetish,” Voldemort said, voice a mixture of lust and amusement. 

“How couldn’t I?” Harry asked, spreading them to blow softly on the sensitive flesh underneath. “I have this before me.” 

Voldemort’s head dipped and he tried to move away. Harry’s grip held him intact and he moaned as Harry grazed against the flesh with his teeth and then sucked deeply.

“Harry—”

“Take it. I want you to take it.”

So Voldemort took it, first quietly and then loudly, in incoherent Latin and whispered entreaties to Harry, in groans and then screams as he threw his back in wild abandonment of senses to passion. Harry guided his cock to the twitching hole that leaked his saliva. Voldemort thrust backwards, in a bid to take all of him in, but Harry refused to yield, slowly entering, inch by inch, feeling flesh flutter around him in greed, and then withdrawing. Then he fucked deep, thinking of Wilhelm each time he came close to spending, fierce and raw in his thrusting, and he wondered if he was hurting his lover, but Voldemort seemed to be revelling in their lovemaking, speaking Harry’s name as if it were the most powerful spell. 

And then they were finally falling, together, Harry felt tears escaping him and was glad that Voldemort could not see them, and he was trying to wipe them on his shirt-sleeves sneakily when Voldemort turned around, his face glistening wet and a powerful, undeniable emotion burning in his eyes, unafraid and trusting. Harry stopped wiping his tears away and gladly joined Voldemort in a gentle, lingering kiss. 

They broke apart and Voldemort said, “Look at what you have done, Harry. You have made yourself late for your trip to London.”

Harry rolled his eyes and rested his head on Voldemort’s breast before saying happily, “There is always tomorrow.” 

“Always is an interesting word,” Voldemort said, sounding sleepy. “Does always truly hold always?” 

“There is something you know that I don’t, about London,” Harry remarked, lulled by Voldemort’s fingers carding through his hair in a soothing, rhythmic pattern. “That is all right. I will deal with it tomorrow. Can we stay here a little while longer? It is warm enough.” 

“Why not? A bower quiet for us, and a sleep full of sweet dreams.”

“Is it Catullus again?” 

“Endymion, Harry. After all, I have reached a quandary where there is no one, not one, but thee.”

Harry was about to say that he had reached that point long ago, perhaps when he had killed Wormtail, but then he realised Voldemort had known that too. He could not recite poetry or quote great works of love and passion. He did not have to, he realised, because Voldemort had known all of his heart long before Harry himself had.

———

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have seven more chapters to go! Thank you so much for your patience.


	34. Hello, Oedipus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Best live as we may, from day to day.

Harry woke early, as was his habit. Voldemort stirred in his sleep, but Harry gently arranged the blankets around the man and snuck out of the bed quietly. He had become quite the expert at this exercise. He padded softly across to the clothes he had set out the previous night. Oh, atop his folded clothes was an inconspicuous fishing rod. He smiled as he felt Voldemort’s magic strong on the object. His portkey. 

He had not worn robes in a long time, not since he had arrived in Rheims with robes tattered and bloody. Yet, he needed them to go to London, to see the Minister. 

He winced as he stretched his limbs. Voldemort had fucked him none too gently the previous night. Whatever had possessed the man at the breakfast table to let Harry dominate must have passed. The evening, and then the night, had been glorious in its decadent indulgence as Voldemort had been first controlled, and then full of desperate need, caring little for Harry’s comfort or his own. The room still reeked of sex. Harry shook his head and hurried across to the windows to throw them open. The scent of the wisteria blooms growing on the trellis washed in. There, that was better. 

Casting one more fond glance at the sleeping form on the bed, he turned his attention back to his clothes. They were tight at the seams. Mrs. Weasley would be proud of him, but Ron and Hermione would greet the development with surprise and a great amount of teasing. He placed the blame squarely at the feet of the housekeeper, who insisted on feeding them baguettes with butter and cheese, and then peas and carrots, and then ratatouille, and then whatever took her fancy that day. Voldemort had developed a taste for mille feuille, and Harry too had come to like it. They had both gained a few pounds, Harry was sure, but Voldemort’s robes were loose enough to conceal that. That train of thought brought Harry to the conversation he had with the housekeeper, who had complained that Voldemort’s robes were too old to be mended properly. Perhaps, if Harry had time, he would stop by Madam Malkin’s and buy some fabric to bring home, so that the housekeeper could then stitch new robes. Left to his own devices, Voldemort would be content to ignore the necessity until the robes had gone threadbare. He tied his Gryffindor scarf around his neck, suppressing a wince as it scratched against the marks left on his skin by Voldemort’s mouth and fingers, and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

“Will you be returning tonight?” 

“Goodmorning, Clara!” Harry greeted her cheerfully, taking the cup of coffee she proffered and closing his eyes in bliss at the strong smell. 

She cast a wary glance at the bedroom door behind him. For all that she was fond of indulging Voldemort’s culinary cravings, she took care to approach him only when Harry was around. Perhaps the last time around, when Voldemort had been grieving Abraxas, he had frightened her right out of her wits. Harry did not blame her for her caution.

“I will be back for supper,” he assured her. “Was there anything you wanted from London?” 

She frowned at him, and Harry thought it was a very French frown, signalling what she thought of London and Britain. Oh well, Harry would buy some tea and show her how to brew a pot properly. 

The door slid open then, and Voldemort walked out, tying the sash on his dressing gown secure as he did so. He greeted Clara in French and then came to Harry, and there was mild accusation in his eyes. 

“Only meant to let you get some sleep,” Harry assured him. “After what you did last night, I had thought you might need the rest.”

“Such a solicitous, young man. You forgot to leave a charming note and a rose in the boudoir where you bedded your love.”

“I shall remember the next time,” Harry promised him, leaning upwards to kiss him. He liked kissing Voldemort in the morning, when he was fully awake and Voldemort was still hazily waking to the world, too uncoordinated and purposeless in his responses to Harry’s kiss. 

“Might I suggest caution?” Voldemort stole the coffee cup from Harry’s hands and drank it down with a sigh. 

“I am going to the Ministry,” Harry told him. “Taking the port-key you made for me. There, and back. I won’t stray, don’t worry.”

“I am not worried,” Voldemort assured him, ruffling his hair. “A well-informed man does not worry.”

Harry found that worrying. Dumbledore had been the most well-informed man Harry had known, after all. Oh well, Harry thought, as he waved goodbye and touched his port-key to take him away, at least Voldemort was not worried about whatever was going on in London. 

—- 

He ended up in the Forbidden Forest. And across him, sat plump on a stump of wood, was Horace Slughorn, looking none too happy. 

“Good morning,” Harry greeted him, wondering why Voldemort had made the port-key take him there instead of the Ministry directly. Harry had wanted to speak with Remus and Percy first, before meeting the Weasleys or Hermione or Snape or the Minister. 

“There have been developments,” Slughorn said. “The Order is making a play for a greater say in the government. As are the Death Eaters. Severus is doing what he is quite adept at doing, sowing mistrust everywhere and almost single-handedly bringing us to the brink of a civil war. He did lead the Aurors magnificently well to come to your rescue in Nurmengard. And Remus Lupin held Britain’s defences against the bulk of Grindelwald’s army. Both of them are key players now. Men respect them, with due cause.The Minister has his own schemes too, I hear. There are many supporting him. After all, he saved Britain from both Grindelwald and the Death Eaters, through his ingenuity in making peace between us all. You might want to be aware of all of this before meeting them.” 

The politics sounded dangerous. Harry wondered what to do. Perhaps it was best to just meet everyone and then take his leave, without trying to be the voice of reason. Voldemort had not seemed worried. 

Harry wanted to hear more about the battle. Had Ron fought? Were they all safe? Who had been harmed? Remus had led them to victory! He must have been determined and brave, to have led so few against so many. 

Flitwick was right. A hero would arise when the need was dire, and Britain had not needed Dumbledore or Voldemort or Harry in the end. 

Harry wanted to know how Snape had led the Aurors to Nurmengard, into the very heart of the enemy territory. It must have been a suicide squad, Harry realised. Snape and the Aurors he had taken must have been ready to meet death there. And Bellatrix had followed Harry there, heedless of the danger. 

“How is Bellatrix Lestrange?” Harry asked. 

Slughorn laughed, and it was not a happy laugh, and he said, “She is dying, I heard. The wounds she took when she fought in the catacombs of Nurmengard are considered fatal. I have not seen her. Nobody has. She is in her sister’s care, in the old Black house in London. Harry, there is something else.”

“Yes?” 

“Severus told everyone that he could only find you in the castle.” 

——

Malfoy Manor was as pretentious as Harry remembered it. Sighing, he walked carefully, avoiding the peacock droppings, and followed the winding path to the front door. 

Lucius Malfoy stood there, looking haggard and unkempt. 

“He is fine,” Harry tried to reassure the man, not knowing what else to say. 

“I am aware,” Lucius said irritably, pushing back his sleeve to show Harry the mark. “I only wonder when he might consider letting the Minister know. I cannot defend his interests unless I know what they are. I cannot rein in Severus unless I know what the Dark Lord intends.”

“Um, well, I only wanted to see Bellatrix,” Harry said awkwardly, trying his best not to shove his hands into the pockets of his robes. Poise. Dumbledore had been full of poise. Harry tried to channel that, and wasn’t quite sure that he was successful. 

Lucius looked at him surprised. Then he made a graceless, shrugging gesture and walked back into the hallway, beckoning Harry to follow. In the same room where Harry had once sat with the madwoman to search for Slughorn, Narcissa now sat sewing daintily, though the careworn lines on her face gave her tiredness away. On the same couch where she had once held court, Bellatrix now lay listless and pale. The flesh had sunken deep in her cheeks and she looked hollow, reminding Harry of how Sirius had been when Harry had seen him at Hogwarts in his Third Year. Suppressing that memory, Harry walked forward tentatively and looked down at her. There were hideous scars on her face, and they ran down her neck too. The left ear was missing. Her hands, whatever was exposed of them, were scarred too. He gulped. She must have held her ground for a very long time, letting him escape. 

“She will not die,” Lucius said, sounding not particularly pleased about that. Narcissa’s half-stifled gasp of anguish made Harry look up. Lucius sniffed and left the room, leaving Harry with the sisters.

“My husband has wanted her dead for a very long time,” Narcissa said quietly, not looking up from her sewing.

Harry did not tell her that many people, with just cause, had wanted Bellatrix dead for a very long time. All he could think of was her killing Sirius, of her running away from Harry’s curses, of her dancing away from the Death Stick as she attempted to shield Harry from Grindelwald in the crypts beneath Canterbury, of her stand in Crouch’s court defiant as she exulted in what she had done to the Longbottoms, of her coming to his rescue in the catacombs of Nurmengard, even though she had known that it would mean her death.

“Did she like Sirius?” Harry asked softly.

“They loved, obsessively,” Narcissa said in a voice as brittle as chalk. “I did not understand it. And when their love turned to hate, it destroyed our family.” 

Harry wondered if his love too was obsessive. Nobody would understand it, he was sure. Was it the same then? Would it one day damage others? It was a secret still, and they had been busy fighting a war. Now the war was done and the murky business of politics had begun. How would they continue? So far, they had kept their beliefs and causes out of their relationship. That would change. Harry had his friends, his family, and Dumbledore’s legacy to think of. 

“I knew Lucius’s father when I was a child,” Narcissa said then. “He reminded me of the sunflowers in the gardens here, only blooming when he was in the Dark Lord’s company. He let himself be defined by that, just as Bella and Sirius let themselves be defined by their obsession for each other. You are only as old as my son. Perhaps you may wish to consider carefully all that life could offer you, now that you are free.” 

“Free?” Harry asked. 

He had never been free. He would never be. He was Voldemort’s now. Before that, he had been Dumbledore’s. What was his purpose, now, when the wars had all ended, when there was peace? He was not a politician. He had no desire to follow Ron into the Aurors. He did not wish to go back to Hogwarts. He could not tell even his closest friends about Voldemort, about how Dumbledore had known and even encouraged it for the sake of the greater good. 

“My mother once said that the boy he had been, back in their Hogwarts days, had desired to be chosen as much as he had wanted to choose. Before all the bloodshed and the violence had set into their lives, they had chosen him to be one of their own, and it had mattered to him. Why would he have returned to this country otherwise? He could have gone to Spain, or to Albania, or anywhere else. He might let you choose, and if you do choose wisely, to live differently, he will stand aside. He did that once before, when Lucius’s father married Lady Eloise. He could have ended the engagement, but he did not.” 

Tom Riddle had been promiscuous during his Hogwarts days. He had been promiscuous afterwards too. Yet, he had not initiated a sexual relationship with Abraxas, and it had all begun only when Abraxas had asked for it. He had waited for Abraxas to choose him. When Harry had returned after that summer, Voldemort had not initiated sex, not until Harry had asked twice. And throughout their acquaintance, Voldemort had never summoned Harry to his side, though he had never turned Harry away either. 

“I-”, Narcissa hesitated and then said in a whisper, “I would not want this for my son.”

And Molly would not want it for her children. And Hermione’s parents would not want this for her. Harry was sure that his parents and Sirius would not have wanted it for him too. Petunia, on the other hand, would not care, and might even say that she had always known he would turn out just so.

—-

Lunch at the Ministry canteen was an unique experience, Harry found. There were elbows everywhere, jostling him about, and Hermione punctuated her sentences with an elegant jab of her knife ever so often that he did not blame Ron for keeping a safe distance from her.

“We were so worried!” Ron said, munching on his fish and chips. “I wanted to be there, but Snape said that I would be of more use fighting under Remus. Come to think of it, he only took a few, and they were all volunteers whom he personally vetted.”

“I don’t think he expected to return,” Hermione said softly, looking at Harry as if she was sure that he knew the why of it. “He brought back Dumbledore’s bones, Harry. I was at St. Mungo’s, waiting, and he looked so broken when he brought the bones back. I asked him where you were, and he promised that you were safe, and that we could not go to you without risking your safety. Remus refused to have any of it, and demanded to see you, as did Mr. Weasley. Professor Snape said he had sworn an unbreakable vow with Dumbledore to keep you safe. Remus made him take the Veritaserum. We had all been so worried for you, but the Professor insisted you were safe.”

“Any news about You Know Who?” Ron cut in, looking quite worried. “The gossip says that he is alive. I heard that he summoned you to his side through that enchantment he has on you, to save him. And then Grindelwald trapped you too!”

“No, no,” Harry lied quickly. “I was in the Forbidden Forest, thinking about the war, thinking about Dumbledore. Out of habit, I started playing with the port-key on my cloak that Dumbledore had made for me, to bring me to him, in case of danger. There was his magic still on it, and it took me to Nurmengard.”

Why had he lied? Why had he not let Ron and Hermione think that Voldemort had summoned him? 

“Dumbledore was so powerful,” Hermione said sadly. “It is unusual for magic to hold after its caster dies. Though, as we know, love is the greatest magic of all, and death does not end it. He did love you, Harry.” 

Ron patted her hand kindly and handed her his handkerchief. Harry looked away, feeling out of place suddenly, feeling guilty at the lie that had come easily to his lips. Had Dumbledore loved him? Yes, in his own manner, Harry was sure. It was not a love unconditional, perhaps, but it was more than what Harry had deserved, especially after he had started the relationship with Voldemort. 

“Harry!”

It was Rita Skeeter. Harry put his utensils down and looked haplessly at his friends. Hermione smiled encouragingly and Ron nodded at him. He got to his feet and rushed away, overcome suddenly by the crowd around him, the bustle and the voices. They shouted for him, asking for explanations, expressing their gladness to see him out and about. He could hear Ron’s voice booming across the canteen, asking them all to let him be. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Hermione intercepting Rita. Then he skidded to a stop. Before him stood Remus and Moody, their faces bright with happiness on seeing him. He felt alien, and longed for Dumbledore, for Voldemort, for Petunia’s cupboard under the stairs. 

—-

“Where did Snape take you to?” 

Moody looked suspicious. Remus looked worried. Amelia looked curious. 

“Somewhere safe,” Harry said quietly. “Somewhere away from the battle. He had sworn to keep me safe. He knew I wouldn’t be safe in London.”

“Not Hogwarts. We searched high and low for you.”

“Not Hogwarts.”

“Harry, we have been worried,” Remus began, with asperity. “It was different when you were in Dumbledore’s care. He knew more than we did. He could protect you better than any of us. We trusted him with your safety, even when he did not confide in us. Yet, even after he died, at Canterbury, you have been off on your own. We could not do anything then, because you were sworn to You Know Who’s care, and we knew that he would not harm you while there was Grindelwald to worry about. He needed us as much as we needed him, to win the war. It is different now. They say that he is dying. I want you safe, here, with your friends. There are many trying to hunt him down, to finish him off. The Death Eaters are in disarray. Some of them are jockeying for political power, some of them are fearful of being prosecuted for wartime crimes, and the most rabid ones, including Bellatrix, have been injured badly in the war.”

“Dumbledore trusted me to keep myself safe,” Harry said carefully. He had thought about this a great deal the previous night, when lying sated on Voldemort’s chest, with Voldemort’s fingers carding through his hair. 

“Albus isn’t here,” Amelia said in a quiet, determined tone. “We need to find out what You Know Who did to you.”

Bellatrix had told him once, hadn’t she? She had told him that both of them would be targets after the war. She was a weapon and he was Voldemort’s slave. Both of them were too powerful to forget about. 

“He cast a spell to mark me as his,” Harry said lightly. “We agreed then, all of us, that it was for the best.” 

“The times have changed,” Moody pointed out, his magical eye spinning in his socket eerily. “The quicker we find out about your enchantment, the quicker we can break it. The best of our Unspeakables, and Granger, are all working on it. Now we need your blood to run some tests, to find out more information.” 

What could they find out? It was love that had placed the mark on him. It was only love that bound him. It was only his love that bound him. He doubted that blood would lead them to the answers. Yet, what if it could? He knew very little about the fundamentals of magic. And he knew nothing about how Voldemort’s magic sometimes manifested through emotion and instinct. In his gut, he knew it was different from the focus and skill that Dumbledore had possessed. He doubted that anybody except Dumbledore could decode the secret behind Harry’s mark of slavery. 

It would only trigger Moody’s suspicions further if he refused. Moody was a trained Auror, a veteran of many wars. Harry did not want him in his mind. There were more dangerous secrets he kept. 

He did need to learn Legilimency. He felt grief and resentment settle deep in his chest. The war was over, but he would be fighting for the rest of his life. He would not be able to carry on like Ron and Hermione, or Ginny, or even Draco Malfoy. 

Dumbledore had protected him, for a long time, not only from those who wanted him dead, but also from the public and the Ministry, from even people like Remus and Moody who wanted the best for him. In his own way, Dumbledore had tried to ensure that Harry had a normal childhood, that he had a normal set of experiences at school, unencumbered by his destiny. 

“Of course,” Harry said easily, standing up and offering his right wrist to Moody. Wormtail had taken blood from him by force to resurrect Voldemort. Now here he stood, offering his blood, to let the Unspeakables and Hermione try to find a way to free him from slavery. 

Remus looked concerned, and said, “We need not be so hasty. You must be tired. Perhaps we can go to the Burrow now. Molly has been worried. You could stay there temporarily until Tonks and I move into our new place where we have a room set aside for you.”

Harry looked at him, surprised. He had not thought about living arrangements. Dumbledore had been complicit in Harry’s travel to and from Voldemort’s abode. After that, the war had kept everyone busy, Voldemort had been too terrifying to demand anything of, and Snape had dispelled the occasional question. 

“I cannot-”

“This shall not hurt,” Moody reassured him, bringing out his wand and waving it swiftly. Harry felt a strange sensation in his wrist, and then he looked down to find a neat cut, already healing, on his skin. In Moody’s hand, when he looked up, was held a tube of blood. Harry wished that Wormtail had been as efficient.

“To the Burrow then?” Remus asked.

“I wish to go to Hogwarts first,” Harry said quietly. He wanted to see Molly. He needed to first figure out how to get away safely, to go home. “I wish to pay my respects at Dumbledore’s tomb.”

He needed to see Snape and Flitwick. 

—- 

“Winning a war does not seem to sit well with you,” Snape remarked, when Harry stepped into the Headmaster’s office.

“Severus!” chided Dumbledore from his portrait, looking all cosy amidst multiple pouffes and doilies. He would have liked their housekeeper. Harry walked to the portrait and traced the edges gently, trying to blink away the tears from his eyes, not wanting to let Snape see him cry. 

“Go on,” Snape said acerbically. “Get it over with, Potter. Make a spectacle of yourself, and then once it is done, we can get to business.”

Fawkes trilled an admonishment and Snape huffed before turning to pick a book from the nearby table and occupying himself with it. 

“My dear, dear boy,” Dumbledore said softly, looking down at Harry, his half-moon spectacles glinting bright. 

Tears washed down Harry’s face, as he stood there silently crying, remembering the wolf in the dungeon, remembering the spectacles that he had held in his hands, remembering the corpse rotting alone. Harry wondered how Voldemort could bear to see Abraxas’s portrait everywhere, bright and vivacious, and devoid of life. He wondered how Snape had found the strength to find the bones, to bring them back, and to inter them here at Hogwarts. 

“I didn’t do anything to keep London safe,” Harry confessed. “I was useless.”

“No, you weren’t. You brought him to where we needed him to be. You made him brave enough to duel Gellert. Only he could have, you know. And only you could have made him give up so much.”

Voldemort had planned to hibernate during the war. He had not wanted to get involved. He had become involved, all the same, and he had gone to Hungary to meet Grindelwald where he was at his strongest, he had been prepared to fight to his death, he had been prepared to be enslaved and imprisoned, and tortured, and executed without dignity or magic. Harry had heard his ravings during the long recovery, and he had sat there crying thinking about what Voldemort had endured there. And in the end, Harry had been useless still, and Voldemort had saved them both. 

“Don’t break the boy, Albus,” Snape said then, sounding displeased. “Go away. He can come back and talk to you later.” 

Dumbledore smiled down sadly at Harry once more before sliding out of his portrait. Harry stood there, watching the empty frame.

“Advising you has not worked in the past,” Snape said quietly, coming to join him. He sounded hesitant. His voice picked up a measure of firmness as he continued, “A great many will seek you for explanations. There will be calls to interrogate you, to save you from the clutches of the Dark Lord. You don’t have Albus to shield you anymore.” 

“You did not tell anyone that he has recovered.”

“He did not want me to,” Snape replied. “The war is over. I am expendable. I am hardly going to go against his wishes.”

“You are trying to start another civil war,” Harry said wryly. “I am sure that you will still be in high demand with every faction. You have made sure of that.”

“Potter, I am hardly a loose cannon as you seem to think,” Snape muttered. “Think, boy. What do you think the Dark Lord will do to me if he knows I am plotting against him?”

“You have plotted against him in the past.”

“To keep you safe,” Snape pointed out, sounding very, very tired. “I cannot do that anymore, not without Albus.”

Harry turned to face him, and flinched at the grief on Snape’s features. He looked so lonely, standing there before Dumbledore’s empty frame, looking dwarfed amidst the large armchairs that Dumbledore had favoured. 

“I can keep myself safe now,” Harry said softly, feeling wretched. He did not see the man who had loved Lily devoid of all reason. There was no love left, or its memory, or even obsession. He only saw a man, alone, who was grieving still the deaths of two whom he had held dear. Snape looked lost too, as if robbed of purpose. 

“I have the school,” Snape said, trying to bolster himself. “There is much to be done.”

“There will be a lot to do here, always. You should leave,” Harry dared to say. “Even if only for a while. When did you last travel?”

“Sometimes, you are the spitting image of him,” Snape said dryly, looking up at the empty frame. “Only, significantly less clever.”

Perhaps it was only time and patience. Harry decided that he was willing to invest plenty of both. Snape had protected him, for a very long time, even when it had been deadly, for the sake of Lily first, and then for Dumbledore. Perhaps it was destined, then, that Harry would take up their task of trying to keep Snape level. 

“I like Rheims,” Harry said. “Calm. I am learning to milk the cows.”

“Eloise Malfoy said the same once. I went to fetch her from Rheims one time, when Lucius could not. She looked a child there, running about, chasing the calves home, all fresh of face and spirits.”

“Did she go there often?”

“She picked up the habit after Abraxas died. She used to go and visit the Dark Lord, at a time when none of us dared to. She tended to him and he let her. She found a purpose in that. He was remarkably cautious with her, and did not subject her to the madness he subjected the rest of us to, even at the crux of his mourning. He was civil and courteous to her, even when he came to the Malfoy Manor for meetings, reeking of men and sex. And when he took her to his bed, in the end, I think he swore off his dalliances completely, staying faithful to her, though she would have forgiven him for straying. She was a forgiving woman, but he wasn’t the straying sort. He took her to Rheims often, and to other places. In his own way, I think he found a measure of pleasure in showing her the world that she had been shut away from. These episodes turned rarer, as he became more and more engrossed by the prophecy, in hunting James and Lily and their child. After he fell, Eloise could not bear to even think of returning to Rheims.” 

Voldemort had once spoken of children. If he had not fallen in Godric’s Hollow, how would that have panned out? Eloise would have been happy to bear him children. Voldemort, even in the midst of insanity, had not harmed her, had treated her carefully, had done his best to be as good to her as very few husbands were to their wives. Harry needed to only think of Vernon to shudder. 

“I saw a portrait of her at Rheims. She looks so young. Innocent.”

“I do sometimes wonder if I made the right decision in telling Albus about her,” Snape said quietly, eyes faraway. “Eloise was a good woman. The Dark Lord, for all his faults and crimes, had been kinder to her than the rest of us were, than her own late husband, than Dumbledore, than the insanity ward of St. Mungo’s.”

—- 

Harry walked to Dumbledore’s tomb, but as he saw the headstone, in white marble, his legs refused to move an inch further. He roughly brushed his tears away and walked back, feeling every inch a coward. All he could think of was Dumbledore in that tent, with Ariana’s photograph on that spindly desk, looking at Harry so fondly. 

When he returned to Rheims, only the housekeeper was there, and she sat at the kitchen table with a single candle at her elbow. 

“Where did he set off to?” 

She professed ignorance. Oh, well, then, Harry decided, irked, grabbing his wand and focusing. It took him to the rocks and the sea, under desolate skies, and the breeze was nippy against his thin clothes. There were no wildflowers this time.

Voldemort was perched upon a craggy overhang, swinging his legs listlessly. Harry joined him and sat down. 

“You told me that there was a story here, about why you like this place,” Harry remembered. “You told me that you would tell me one day.”

Voldemort’s unfocused gaze flicked back to Harry, as if seeing him for the first time, and then he said quietly, “As you wish.”

The breeze picked up, and Harry wondered if it would turn into a gale. In the west, the sun was going down into the sea. Gulls flew north, and Harry wondered where they were going. Hermione would know. Spray hit his feet, even though the rock was at least twelve or thirteen feet above the water. The tide was rising. 

“Not unlike you, I had grown up with very few female role models. I did not have many female acquaintances in school. I had fucked women, but I had not conversed with them, or held them. The transactions had been those of lust, not of kindness or care. Then Abraxas decided to marry. I did loathe the woman at first, for what she represented. On the eve of their marriage, tired of all the merry-making, I was about to leave, when Eloise came to me in the gardens. She was timid, but concerned. I had not eaten, and she wondered why. She brought a few stale croissants and a cup of coffee from the kitchen. I was furious at the gall of her, but as I was about to curse her, letting loose my rage roiling deep inside at Abraxas and his choice, I noticed that she had scalded her hands, holding that hot cup of coffee. She was shaking, because she knew what I was. Yet she stood there, bravely, all of nineteen. I thought of what I had seen in my father’s memories, of what he had done to my mother, and it stayed my hand. I took the coffee from her, thanked her, and was about to leave, when she asked me where I was going. Wouldn’t I care to stay, since the wedding was in a few hours? Irked, I took her to where I was going, to show her. I brought her to the most desolate place I could think of. I brought her here. It was the middle of a storm. Her teeth were clacking from the cold when she cast feeble spells to keep us warm, to conjure a ramshackle shelter for us, to cast drying spells upon our clothing. Then, she came to me, took my hands in her little, warm ones, and asked me if I was feeling better. Oh, I don’t know to this day what madness possessed me then, because I told her the truth, that I was grieving the loss of what I had hoped to have for so long. I cursed myself for the lapse in judgment, but, bless her, she held me as I raved and raged, as I wept, as I fell exhausted. I had never been touched by a woman before that, in kindness. I came often to the Isle of Man after that, and the memory of her care was a poignant, powerful one that embodied safety. She held me again, as I wept, after Abraxas’s funeral, after all the mourners had left, cloaked in the darkness of that stormy night. She did not then remember the first time she had done that, because her memories were a wasteland that I had spun. It did not matter, for her essence remained the same, and no memory stolen from her had taken that from her.”

Harry still remembered the scent of Petunia’s detergent. He remembered how she fussed about in the kitchen when baking cookies for Dudley. He had often stolen into the kitchen at night, to go sit by the oven, by the warmth, nodding off to the tales he could replay in his mind, of her voice, lively and coaxing, as she told Dudley stories. He had wondered how his mother might have been, so often. Would she have baked him cookies? Hermione had once told him that men desired women who reminded them of their mothers. Ginny was similar to Lily, he had thought then.

“She was eager to please, like my mother had been. She was timid and insecure, like my mother had been. She let men do what they wanted, to her, and never spoke up, like my mother had been. She was so grateful for the least amount of attention given her, like my mother had been. Oedipal,” Voldemort said then, shaking his head. “I hadn’t expected to see that manifest in my life, what with my insatiable craving for heroic men.”   
Harry wondered if it was true. Did a good woman’s love, especially of the maternal sort, temper a man so much? Was that what had gone wrong in Sirius’s childhood? Was that why the Weasley children, all of them, had turned out so well? Did the mother’s character play an important role in a child’s sexuality? Was that why Sirius had obsessed over Bellatrix? Was that why Harry had liked Ginny? 

“Why did you come here now?” Harry asked, pulling his robes closer to him, cold.

“I needed to think,” Voldemort said blandly, rising to his feet and then helping Harry up. “The war is over. As you must have seen from your jaunt today, the situation is volatile.”

“Moody has a team working to remove the enchantment from me, to free me,” Harry mentioned, rubbing his hands briskly together to warm them, as he followed Voldemort down from the rocks to the ancient, roofless chapel.

Harry was trying to sort out what Snape had been implying. There was something in Snape’s words that did not quite make sense yet. 

“It will fade,” Voldemort said confidently. “I approve of his efforts, nonetheless. Resources he spends in trying to remove the enchantment are resources he does not use to hunt me down.”

Harry ran the last few steps to catch up with the man. Voldemort turned, surprised by Harry’s pace. 

“It won’t fade,” Harry told him. “If I understood your explanation correctly, I think it will not fade at all.”

“There is time now, time enough. You told me that once the war was over, you wished to travel, and to think about everything that had happened to you during that summer.”

Harry had said that, hadn’t he? He had wanted to sit down and sort out why he had lost attraction to women. He had wanted to understand how much his experiences in that hellhole had impacted him. All of it was overwhelming him now. How would he come to terms with Dumbledore’s death? He had not even come to terms with Sirius’s death, had he? He had lived on, from day to day, from one significant event to another, not pausing to think too much about the past. It had been necessary to live so. Now it was not, but he knew no other way. His notion of the future, back when he had day-dreamed of it, had involved a world free of Voldemort, where he would have married Ginny.

“You haven’t asked me to come to you,” Harry said then, picking up his previous musings on what Snape had said. “You have never come to me either, unless I had asked.”

Voldemort leaned against the crumbling walls and nodded assent. There was caution in his gaze now. Harry wondered how it had come to this; that he could so easily read Voldemort’s emotions at times. 

“At the same time, you have let me come and go as it pleased me,” Harry noted. 

Voldemort’s expression did not change, but Harry noticed that he was playing with the frayed threads on his robes, from habit, as he tended to do when he was unsure of a conversation’s direction. 

“You gave me a place at your side, even though you did not seem certain that you had a place at my side.”

“Practicality,” Voldemort said dismissively, looking away. “I care little for the opinion of the world. I have no friends or mentors whose judgment matters. You are not in the same position.”

And it was safety too, Harry knew. If Voldemort did not entertain the idea at all, how would he be hurt? Perhaps Tom Riddle had wanted it, and had expected it, and Abraxas had not been able to give that, because Abraxas had wanted to give him the world instead. Harry had been in Voldemort’s mind, knew how it had echoes present in his own. Harry knew how much he had craved to be chosen by the Weasleys, or by Petunia. He knew how it had turned his world upside down when Voldemort had easily referred to the kitchen as ours, when he had realised that, without a word or a grand declaration, Voldemort had integrated Harry into his life, enough to ruin himself in Nurmengard. And hadn’t Voldemort responded beautifully to Harry, when he had declared passionately that Voldemort was his? 

Perhaps he was overthinking it all. Perhaps he should have taken Snape’s advice in the first place, to take a leap of faith, to trust his instincts. 

“You are mine,” Harry said tentatively, wishing he was half as courageous as he wanted to be then. “I chose you the first time I returned to you. My decision has very little to do with my lack of choice, and it has everything to do with the fact that I love you. I understand very little of politics, I don’t know what your plans are, and I don’t think I can handle the current situation in Britain at all, but please know that I will do everything in my power to keep you by my side for the rest of my life. I am not Abraxas. I cannot give you the world on a plate. I can only give you myself, and take you as mine with pride, with no hesitation. If you wish me to tell the world, I will do it.” 

“Severus recommended Obliviating you and sending you on your merry way to the bosom of your friends,” Voldemort said then, still refusing to look at Harry, refusing to grace Harry’s earnest declaration with acknowledgement. 

Harry was glad that Voldemort had not done that. He had no guarantee that it would not happen in the future. He gritted his teeth and soldiered on. 

“Why didn’t you do it, then?” 

“Haven’t I learned my lesson?” Voldemort said bitterly. “Eloise died raving mad in St. Mungo’s.”

“Is that the only reason?” Harry asked. “Did you wish to give me a choice in the matter? Is that also a reason?”

Voldemort did not reply. The uncertainty on his features undid Harry’s resolve and he took a step closer. 

“Yes,” Voldemort said tiredly. “So here we are. You hold the decision in your hands.”

“You will accept my decision, without any protest?” 

“When have I not?” Voldemort muttered, sounding quite offended by that question. Harry could not blame him for that. 

“Well, I have already decided. I told you that and you did not acknowledge it,” Harry pointed out. “What more do you need me to say? What more do you need me to do? I have not shirked away from stating my love for you, whether it was to Snape or to Dumbledore, or even to bloody Bellatrix. Shall I mark you as you have marked me? Shall I take out an advertisement in the Daily Prophet? Shall I send a letter to my aunt asking for her blessings? What more will it take to sink the truth into your head?”

“I find it difficult to fathom that you have considered what is at stake, for you.”

“There is just as much at stake for you,” Harry said, trying hard to quell his irritation. He needed to be patient and calm. Abraxas’s shadow came up ever so often, but Harry was determined to put it to rest this time. He had had enough. 

“We have not touched upon the subject before,” Voldemort said suddenly, looking as desolate as the landscape before them. Harry suddenly understood what he was referring to. He shoved down his disgust and fear with determination, trying to push them into a tiny, tight, little box in the farthest corner of his heart. He could not deal with it then. Perhaps he could never deal with it.

His parents.

“The fact remains that the course of your life was shaped by me,” Voldemort said, and Harry wondered how brave he must be to bring that up, when avoidance was his natural technique to deal with the past. 

Harry knew he could not deal with it, not then, not ever. Voldemort had murdered his parents. Nothing could bring Harry to terms with that.

“Do you understand now?” Voldemort asked, still looking away. “Do you understand why I cannot consider our stakes the same?”

Harry thought about what Narcissa had said of Bellatrix and Sirius. They had destroyed their family, and many others, when their love turned to hate. He looked at Voldemort carefully. Had he wanted to ruin the man, he could have, by now, many times over. Voldemort had given him the power to, unflinchingly. Harry had gone, to Nurmengard, to die with Voldemort, when he had no need to do so. There was nothing in the future for him, he knew, unless he refused to think of the past. 

“I haven’t read the story, but Hermione once told me about it,” he said carefully. “Oedipus tries to keep searching for answers even when his wife asks him to stop. That leads to her suicide and his tragedy.” 

“Sophocles,” Voldemort said automatically. “Jocasta was her name. And to quote, I have no desire to suffer twice; once in reality, and then forever in retrospect.” 

“Please let it all be,” Harry said, hating the pleading in his tone, and yet determined to beg on his knees if it came to that. “Please. You had me beg you once, after that Christmas party, when I accused you of vile things. Do you want me to do that again? I will.” 

Voldemort turned abruptly to face him and said, “You said that you wanted this for the rest of your life.”

‘“Yes.”

“What if I asked you to amend that, to the rest of mine?” 

Harry frowned. There was still Nagini. Dumbledore had told him that. Later, Voldemort had mentioned in passing that the snake was somewhere safe.

“Grindelwald killed her,” Voldemort told him. “He lay me bare before him, my mind shelled open to his. I had instinctively, when I knew all was lost, wanted to save you first. So I severed the bond. I had forgotten all about Nagini. He stripped me of magic, but before that, he stripped me of my Horcrux. He knew I would not feel the loss if I did not have magic, and he very much wanted me to feel the loss.” 

“I am sorry,” Harry said, feeling wretched to hear that tale. 

He did not know what to say. He had felt his soul tear when he had killed Wormtail. He wondered, with a shudder, what it must feel like to have a part of your soul destroyed. Voldemort had felt that so many times. It was surprising that he still had rationality left in him. 

Voldemort had used the last of his magic to shield Harry, to break their bond. Now many of his fever ravings made more sense to Harry. Voldemort feared death, and he had truly had to accept its inevitability in that prison, since Harry would not have lasted the war and Harry was the final Horcrux. 

“We come back to Oedipus again,” Voldemort said, trying to force himself into philosophy. “I drank her milk. She had nursed me and sheltered me. I remember you asked me once with prurient interest if I had mated with her. My memories are quite hazy from that era. Perhaps I had possessed other snakes and done that. I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry said fiercely, gripping Voldemort by the elbows. “We are here now.” 

“Quite so.” Voldemort sighed and ran a long finger down Harry’s scar. “Will you take me home then?”

Harry’s skills at Apparation, thanks to Snape’s methods of teaching, were abysmal. So when they landed somewhere north of Piccadilly instead of at Rheims, Voldemort kissed him and called him a fool, and then took them home. 

There were flowers in bloom, and the cows chewing cud peacefully, and Harry could smell fresh coffee on the breeze. 

“I think we should get rid of all the Greek tragedies in your library,” Harry said thoughtfully, as they wound their way to the main entrance, up the curving path.

“What shall you replace them with?”

“No more psychology definitely. No more Greek tragedies. Perhaps some nice travel guides. Cookbooks!” 

“Scandalous! I have high hopes that we shall make a literate out of you yet.” 

Harry privately thought that he would rather be a happy fool in denial of his past, instead of becoming a paranoid, embittered literate. First things first, though. He had to speak with Ron and Hermione, and perhaps with Remus, and then with Snape. He needed to sort out the political situation. Voldemort, he was sure, had plans, waiting to be set into motion once Harry had decided where he stood. It would have been helpful to know what those plans were, but Harry was not overly bothered by his ignorance. If anything, working in tandem with Dumbledore had prepared him to work with minimal information.

“Snape seems to be coping much better than I had expected.”

“Severus puts on a front as excellently as any of us,” Voldemort said dryly.

Harry was not sure. Maybe the war had really stripped Snape of his masks, maybe what Harry had seen earlier that day had been the real Snape.

“I need to learn Occlumency,” Harry remembered then. Moody was sure to come investigating soon and Harry needed to be prepared. 

“You haven’t the aptitude for it,” Voldemort said peaceably, opening the door and then standing to the side to let Harry go first. “Heroes generally don’t.”

“Dumbledore could do it!”

“Dumbledore was not a hero.”

Harry disagreed vehemently, but he decided to let it be, for the sake of domestic harmony, as Petunia might have reasoned. He decided to ask Snape to teach him. There, that solved two of his problems! He could keep a closer eye on Snape, and he could learn Occlumency to shield him from Moody’s investigations. 

“Harry, do stop scheming. Best live as we may, from day to day.”

A fine reversal of the normal state of affairs, Harry thought, accepting a generous slice of the delicious chocolate gateau that Voldemort came bearing from the kitchen. 

———

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We still have a bit more to wade through, before we reach the end. Thank you so much for your patience!


	35. The god that comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry learns, betwixt episodes of sex and truffles, that religions serve a purpose, and that sanity is only ever a cloak over madness.

Harry commended himself on the brilliant idea. He resisted the urge to leap and punch the air, as he walked by the little pond that the geese favoured. It was too early in the morning for the geese, and there was no one else around. He let loose his impulse and leapt with a crow of triumph. Gleefully, he walked back to the house at a brisk pace. In the light of the dawn, the quaint old eaves of the place shone bright, a lonely cock called out the time, and the weather vane spun wild in the morning wind, and the sight filled Harry with pleasure. 

It would be hours before Voldemort woke. Harry treasured the quietness of his morning walk. He wondered at the changes in him. He had craved for company on every single jaunt, not very long ago. Had it been Dumbledore’s example that had shown Harry the pleasure of solitude? Was it only that he was certain of a partnership to return to that he did not balk at venturing alone here and there? 

“Could I have a measuring tape?” He asked Clara, who was bustling in the kitchen. She nodded at the pot of coffee. He helped himself as she ambled off to find the object for him.

Voldemort had not seemed particularly enthused when Harry had brought up the matter of new robes. For all that the man spoke teasingly of mathematicians and their detachment from daily life’s needs, he was no better than them. No matter. Harry had a better plan. 

Clara produced the tape. It was old and someone had marked notches on it with a quill. Harry wondered why it was not magical. Had they employed a squib at some point? He put that out of his head and ventured back to the bedroom. He lifted a bottle of olive oil along the way. 

He shook his head in fondness when he saw that Voldemort had migrated over to Harry’s side of the bed, no doubt to soak up the warmth lingering from Harry’s body. He padded across and softly crept onto the bed, and began rubbing a palmful of olive oil onto the tape, making sure to spread it evenly across. 

A semi-articulate mumble greeted him as he moved the blankets away. 

“Measuring,” he said brightly. 

“Just pick a robe and be done with it, Harry,” Voldemort muttered. “I only require that they be warm.” 

“You will like what I have in mind,” Harry teased. “Spread your legs.”

It was a teenager’s dream, Harry admitted to himself. He would have cringed and refused if someone had tried to measure his cock. Then again, Voldemort was not Harry. Voldemort rarely refused Harry in the bedroom, regardless of whether his wants were lewd, juvenile, or soppily romantic. 

“I do wonder what sort of clothes you have in mind,” Voldemort remarked, as Harry inched closer with the tape.

Harry did not blush. He convinced himself that he did not. Oh, how Voldemort could take the kernel of an idea in Harry’s head and spin a wilder fantasy! 

“You surprise me,” Voldemort said then, fully awake, as his nostrils flared at the scent of the olive oil. 

Harry ran the tape across his chest and relished in how Voldemort’s eyes flared. He had noticed over the course of their stay in Rheims that Voldemort took hedonistic pleasure when dipping bread in olive oil or when eating olives. Harry had heard of aphrodisiacs, but he had not truly believed before, not until he had realised one day how Voldemort initiated passionate bouts of sex regularly after such a course. 

“Tell me,” Harry coaxed him, languidly stroking the warm flesh in the circle of his palms. 

When had Voldemort first discovered the effects of olive oil? Had young Tom Riddle asked the House Elves before setting off on one of his sexual adventures? Yet, this was more likely a masturbatory aid than one discovered through a partner, Harry felt. 

“Stole a dish after a benefactor’s dinner. The smell had lured me. I was only seven or eight. I still knew, instinctively, what to do.”

Harry gripped harder and Voldemort threw his head back. Oh, Harry had done that in the darkness, keeping his gasps to the tune of Dudley’s snores, fearful that he would be caught, fearful to leave traces, and yet needing the release. His magic, which had regrown his hair so quickly each time Petunia had taken the shears to it, had vanished the effects of wet dreams too. 

“Take off your clothes and ride my cock,” Voldemort ordered then, voice harsh and devoid of courtesy. “Now.”

That tone brooked no disobedience. Harry shuddered and obeyed hastily. His clumsiness seemed to test Voldemort’s patience, for the man gripped him tight at the waist in warning. Harry picked up his pace, struggling to take so much so suddenly, but Voldemort dragged him down until he was filled. Harry quivered at the passionate handling, but then he moaned as a familiar implement circled his cock, denying him release. He made to touch himself, but found his hands tied behind his back.

“Not until I have taken my pleasure,” Voldemort told him, eyes shining with need reined in. “Put your youth to good use and I shall consider alleviating your plight.”

Harry did his best, stirred by Voldemort’s words and actions, aroused by the unrelenting pace at which his partner thrust his hips upward to fuse their bodies together. And then Voldemort unfurled in his mind, and the scent of olive oil clung to Harry’s senses, affecting him as badly as it affected his lover. Oh, how did Voldemort bear it? It overwhelmed Harry so. He relinquished easily when Voldemort reversed their positions, laying Harry flat across the bed and driving into him. Harry’s hands chafed from the ropes, and his head nudged the headboard with each thrust. His spectacles had fallen off, but he did not need perfect vision to imagine the scene unfolding. And as if on cue, Voldemort bent forwards to kiss him deeply, coiling his hands around Harry’s torso just as he uncoiled in the recesses of Harry’s mind. Latin murmurs touched Harry’s lips, spoken feverishly and rapidly. Harry could only make out Dionysus. And then Voldemort whispered a plain, English name, embellishing it into extraordinariness with the passion in his broken voice, and Harry wondered at how that had transformed his name so. The ties holding him fell away and he crashed with Voldemort, but he made sure to gather his energy, to make sure that he could gather the body atop him into an exhausted embrace, to whisper his love softly.

“Dionysus?” he asked later, as he lay there, spent and satiated, watching Voldemort putter about the room gathering scrolls and arranging them into some sort of catalogue. Harry did not think too much of Voldemort’s attempts at orderliness, and he itched to do it himself. The room had been at its most well-organised when Voldemort had been bed-ridden and Harry had been allowed full-reign. Petunia would have approved of the results then.

“The god that comes,” Voldemort said brightly, stretching his limbs in the full light of the morning sun. Harry hoped that Clara was not outside to hang the washed clothes. 

“The god that comes? Sexually?” Harry asked, confused. Did the Greeks really have a God for that? If so, faith had gone in a completely different direction by the time humanity had reached the modern religions.

“There are many tales, some arising from early Christian sources that attempted to discredit pagan religions by throwing in wild stories of abandon and dissolute recklessness,” Voldemort said. “It is likely true that the Greeks looked to him as a patron of trances, uninhibited by the normal state of self-consciousness, perhaps helped along by mushrooms or whatever brews they could get their hands on during that era. Not unlike absinthe in our culture, perhaps. The cult of Dionysus is still active in parts of Greece, to this day. They believe that he rescued his poor mother and placed her among the stars. When he went to the lands of death, he was guided by Prosymnus, a shepherd, whose condition was that they would be lovers afterwards. Unfortunately, the guide died before Dionysus could fulfill this promise. Nevertheless, undaunted, our hero fashioned a phallus from an olive branch and sat upon it at Prosymnus’s tomb. Ever since I heard the tale, I have associated the combination of olives and sex with Dionysus.”

History tended to be rewritten by the powerful. Even religions, even mere myths and stories, had been rewritten to show the latest powerful group in a positive light, and all others in a negative manner. 

“I wonder why the wizarding world did not take to religions,” Harry mused. 

He had heard of the grisly history of the Church from Hermione. He had stood in Becket’s crypt. It hurt still to think of Canterbury. 

“A wizard acknowledges only one power, and that is magic itself. The notion of an omniscient being above that threatens this view. Perhaps we would be better off if there were religions. Most would find solace in them, and have little time or independence of thought to ask questions. The pyramid of basic needs, once met, leaves us with a hunger to find the meaning to life. Religion solves that. The Church has had a significant part, over the centuries, to get the Muggle civilizations to where they are, through great acts of altruism and terror. Renaissance is a remarkable achievement that could not have come about otherwise. We did not have a wizarding renaissance.”

Renaissance. Harry dimly remembered da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Raphael. He had heard of it in Muggle school. 

“Was that a renaissance of the Greek culture?” he asked. “A revival of interest in the pagan ways?”

“That is an oversimplification, though the fall of Constantinople did cause fleeing scholars to bring with them precious Greek cultural texts with them to Italy,” Voldemort said thoughtfully. “I am hardly a historian, but I recollect that the period was marked by relative stability in the papacy, with no schisms, leading to safety and prosperity in Italy, which in turn brought more people to devote time to and to become patrons of education and arts. Sustained progress of civilization can only come from extended periods of peace.”

“Then the current situation in London is not the best way forward for the wizarding world,” Harry pointed out. “All the power-jockeying!”

“Harry, when a bitch is in heat, dogs fight each other to mount her. A sensible man would not intervene, would he? The ways of nature are best untampered with.”

Harry blinked at the comparison. He found it hard to imagine the post of Minister as a female dog in heat. He had not seen a female dog in heat before either. He blushed. He had not really had reasons to think of females and of their monthly cycles. Ron often complained about that time of the month, when he felt that Hermione or Ginny were being unreasonable.

“Is it true that their mood changes?” he asked, stuttering, and then blushing again despite his valiant attempt to stay calm and collected. 

Voldemort laughed, saying, “Back in the days when we argued ferociously over the induction of women in the ranks, Abraxas often made this argument to support his stand. I took it upon myself to investigate, in both the muggle and the wizarding worlds. It is all down to the levels of estrogen, I was told, just as it is true that testosterone levels can cause symptoms of depression and sexual dysfunction in men. Men rarely admit to their weaknesses, and it is easier to conceal when there is little, direct physical evidence.” 

This was true, Harry knew. Ron and Harry rarely spoke of their difficulties or fears. Hermione, on the other hand, discussed her worries openly. Was that so bad? Repressing everything seemed worse. One only had to look at Snape to understand that. He knew how light of heart Hermione became once she had finished speaking of her woes with her friends. Why would men actively choose to avoid that? Was it only conditioning? Was there biology at work there too?

Voldemort did not actively speak to Harry about his concerns. In fact, he seemed to usually leave Harry well out of his fears. Look at the whole Grindelwald situation! He scowled. Then he remembered the portrait of Abraxas in Malfoy Manor lamenting that Voldemort had come there for counsel, and pointing out that the man had won no war without Abraxas’s advice. So, maybe, once upon a time, Voldemort had trusted Abraxas with his fears and insecurities. Glumly, Harry wondered if it was because Tom Riddle and Abraxas Malfoy had been peers. He had not found himself too bothered by the fact that Voldemort did not take him into confidence, partly because of the extraordinary circumstances of their relationship, and partly because he was used to it from Dumbledore.

"You have pleased me," Voldemort declared then, waving a hand at the tape. 

A scroll appeared out of thin air and bumped Harry on the head. He opened it to find measurements neatly written. Oh well, his purpose was done then. Whistling merrily, he made his way out and gave the scroll to the house-keeper. She grinned and congratulated him on the accomplishment. 

——-

“Hello!” Harry greeted Snape. 

“Dim of wit, bright of cheer,” Snape muttered, looking him up and down, and shaking his head, no doubt finding Harry lacking.

Harry was not affected by the words, not anymore. Sleeping with Voldemort had boosted his self-esteem, and wasn’t that the strangest turn of events? 

“I must learn to Occlude,” Harry stated baldly. “I can’t have Moody in my head.” 

Not when Harry knew of Nagini’s destruction, not when Harry knew that he was the last Horcrux left. Snape finding out was equally dangerous, but Harry was sure that Dumbledore would have given Snape the information already. Snape knew, or had guessed, Harry was sure. Voldemort would not have let Harry go to Snape to study Occlumency otherwise.

“Your enthusiasm is duly noted,” Snape said. “I only wish you were half as passionate about the field when your life was at stake, when you were marked to be killed, when your mind put us all at risk.”

“It wouldn’t have helped,” Harry assured him. “Not with Voldemort. Anyone who planned trusting in my ability to Occlude against him was not planning very well, I would think. And trying to fight off Grindelwald was futile anyway. It didn’t matter then. It matters now.”

“Such rationalization. Be that as it may, Potter, you hardly have the innate ability to do so, as we have learned through trial and grief.”

Snape was quite wrong, Harry was sure. He had been able to keep his mind shut when he had gone to kill Wormtail. He had safeguarded his tryst from both Dumbledore and Snape for a very long time. Harry was sure that his mind could learn to Occlude, if it had been already able to do that instinctively under need. Perhaps he did not have the capacity to do it as naturally as Voldemort could, or as Dumbledore had. However, he was reasonably certain that he could learn to do it the way Snape had, through compartmentalization and denial.

“I hardly wish to be subjected to your fond memories of pederasty,” Snape said darkly. 

Harry did not know what that meant, but he could guess that it was a judgement on his activities with Voldemort. He shrugged. While he wished that Snape would come to terms with it, he was not unfamiliar with the man’s tendency to brew and stir a matter until it had become a vortex of obsession. 

“One last attempt!” Harry wheedled. “I will not bother you again about this, if it doesn’t work.”

Snape harrumphed and took out his wand. Harry planted his feet steady on the ground and took a deep breath, trying to centre himself, trying to calm his emotions.

“Legilimens!”

Ron’s and Hermione’s faces floated up, and then Clara’s mille feuille, and then Harry’s worry as he pinched the fat at his waist, and then Dudley chomping down cookies, and then Snape was pushing further and further. Bellatrix’s injured form rose to the surface of Harry’s mind, and then Moody taking his blood. Snape was unrelenting now, and Harry could feel nausea churning his gut. Sweat pooled down into his palms as he tried to fight Snape off, but Snape was not teaching anymore, obsessed in trying to break down something Harry could not pinpoint. Harry felt himself falling to his knees, dizzy, and rubbing his temples in pain. Snape ceased.

“How did you do that?” 

“Do what?” 

“Don’t toy with me!” Snape shouted, angry. “You know precisely what I speak of.”

Harry pushed his sweat-drenched hair out of his eyes and blinked up at Snape. 

“There are no memories of the Dark Lord,” Snape pointed out. 

Oh. Harry bit his lips as he stumbled to his feet and dusted off the knees of his trousers. That was interesting.

—— 

“How did your lesson fare?” Voldemort asked solicitously, sitting cross-legged on the meadow and eating prunes. Over on the pond, ducks waddled on, with not a care for Harry’s exhausted mind. 

Harry took his gaze off Voldemort’s juice-stained lips and muttered, “You ought to know how it went.” 

“I am surprised that you think I would let you run amok with your mind unguarded.”

“Because of what you have told me about your Horcruxes.”

“I don’t deny self-interest,” Voldemort said graciously. “I would not discount my concern for your safety either.” 

“Why did you let me go to Snape in the first place then?” 

“I wished you to find out for yourself,” Voldemort explained, leaning across to kiss Harry. 

Harry’s mouth tasted of prunes too. He was not fond of them, but he found the taste tolerable right then, mixed with the familiar taste of Voldemort’s mouth. 

Why did it matter to Voldemort that Harry would find out for himself? Had Harry not taken him at his word before? He frowned.

“How do you guard our memories?” 

“It is not the most elegant magic one could do. There is no theoretical proof at all. Possession is different from coercion through the Imperius. One seems to be a function of the subject’s receptivity while the other is a function of the subject’s willpower. Some would argue that there is little difference between the two. In my experience, I have found it otherwise. You are resistant to the Imperius, but you are receptive to my possession. In our case, the bond does help us along in such pursuits. Your mental defences fall to tatters during coitus. I merely took advantage of that and built rudimentary defences of my own. Strengthening them might have had negative effects, perhaps taking on aspects of the Confundus or the Obliviation charms. I had no desire to find out. So rudimentary, simple defences to protect you. They shall not withstand the attack of a powerful wizard, but they should suffice in most cases and they should buy you time to dissimulate even if they eventually fall. I do recommend that you learn a modicum of Occlumency.”

Harry tried to wrap his head around the explanation. He found that he could understand, at least to a basic degree, what Voldemort had done. Interesting. Perhaps Voldemort would not have been inept at teaching. He had a knack for breaking down complex magic into understandable chunks, using analogies that were easy to understand. It was refreshingly different from Hermione’s methods, where she assumed that her students had as much grasp over the theoretical underpinnings of magic as she did. It depended on the student, Harry realised. Hermione would find Voldemort’s explanation patronising, most likely. Harry himself preferred this mode of teaching. Snape had a tendency to assume, as Hermione often did, that his students were more advanced than they actually were. 

“Could you teach me to Occlude then?” 

“I could,” Voldemort said thoughtfully. “I think it unwise. The bond could cause unpredictable situations. If you truly wish to learn, I recommend Bella. Her house invented the arts of the mind, you know. The Black insanity is purported to be a consequence of their experiments with mind magic. They are said to be more comfortable than most in the recesses of the human mind. The Blacks I have known were all excellent at it. Walburga’s Summoning spells were weaker than her Legilimency skills. Your godfather and Bella lasted Azkaban retreating into their minds.”

Had Sirius known to Occlude? Harry doubted it. He had run away from home early. And if Sirius had known, he would have taught Harry himself, regardless of Dumbledore’s reasons to let Snape tutor him.

“How did you learn?” Harry asked Voldemort. 

“Unconventionally. I was a decent student of physics. In my childhood, the great physicists spoke of light and gravity, of time-travel and the Einstein-Rosen bridge. I understood very little. However, I developed the habit of asking why. The world of magic does not encourage the question. Sometimes, it is even actively discouraged. Disillusioned, and bereft of answers, I looked to mathematics and physics. On shaky foundations, I visualized thoughts and the human mind as energy and matter. One transforming into the other, as the relativity theory states. I postulate that there is a scientific explanation for most every magical phenomenon. What we cannot explain, we call magic. Yet, is that so? We do not know if our universe is within a blackhole. Is Apparation only a spacetime journey across a traversable wormhole? Once you are convinced that there are scientific explanations, very little limits you in terms of what you are capable of.”

Well, that did not help Harry much. He was hardly going to wade through textbooks of astrophysics until enlightenment hit him and he mastered Occlumency.

“You are quite clever, you know,” Voldemort said easily, lying back on the green, and shifting his legs to Harry’s lap. He sighed when Harry began kneading the arches of the feet firmly. “You only need to cease crippling yourself.”

“Hermione is quite clever,” Harry said. “Ron has a fine mind for strategy. Neville is extraordinarily talented in Herbology. Even bloody Draco is quite apt at Charms. Other than chasing a snitch, I am not sure I have managed to excel at anything. Well, there is Defence against the Dark Arts, I guess.”

“There you go again, comparing and finding yourself lacking. It requires hours and hours of practice to be passable at a musical pursuit or a sport. It is the same for anything else, I am sure, though I lack the proof. Genetics can only take you so far. Everything else is practice and effort. Draco Malfoy excels at Charms only because he has devoted a significant portion of his life to learning the subject. Unlike his father, he does seem to be moderately tolerant of the venture of reading. That must have helped. Lucius learned in the ranks, brawling and challenging others almost everyday, for hours, as did many of his peers. It is one way to learn.” 

Harry wondered if he learned that way the best. He knew that he thought well on his feet. Enough people had told him so over the years. Did that mean that theory was beyond his grasp? Was it too late? He had been a decent student in the Muggle school he had attended. Why had he fared poorly at Hogwarts? Much of his academic mishaps could be blamed on Voldemort, he knew. Yet, even on normal days, he had rarely chosen to spend his time on academic work, unless required by a Professor or coerced by Hermione.

“How did you practise dueling?” Harry asked, curious. 

He had never seen a pensieve memory of Tom Riddle practising magic, though he had seen several of Riddle studying. He had not seen Voldemort practising or even using magic much at all in the period of their relationship.

“I did not find equals during my school years. I had tried, initially, to practise with some of the more proficient Ravenclaws. It resulted in little progress. So I made do, with a stolen Time Turner, dueling against myself. Later, when I had learned to Apparate, I would often go incognito to the dark, dockside alleys of Spain or Portugal where trespassers had to fight for their lives against organised cartels of wizards involved in the notorious Muggle women trafficking business. Afterwards, once I had embarked on my travels, I had plenty of opportunities to duel. There was rarely anyone that truly challenged me, unless I had been incapacitated in some way. It was a young man’s bravado, most of it, and it took me many, many years to understand that the true challenge was efficiency. It is the lesson that those who run a marathon know well. I had not duelled anyone proficient enough to last very long against me. Then I ran into a group of vampires in Albania. They were not savvy duellists, but their stamina more than levelled any advantage I had. I tired eventually. They did not. It was a perilous lesson, but one that I shall not forget.” 

The housekeeper came outside then, grinning ear to ear. 

“Yes?” Harry asked.

“Black truffles!”

Harry had heard of truffles, from Hermione. She had been ecstatic when describing their taste. They were mushrooms, weren’t they? 

“Pasta?” she asked. “Maybe some game meat?”

“We should find some game then,” Voldemort said brightly, getting to his feet. “Come, Harry, let us put your new skills to use. Fetch your kestrel and hunt us a pair of rabbits. I will accompany you. I can teach you how to skin and dress game.”

——

Harry woke up panting, afraid. He had been Frank the gardener. Bertha was dead. Frank was dead too. He was not Frank anymore. He was someone else, exulting in the kill, jubilant, wishing to do it over and over again, and oh, how long had it been since he had killed. That had thrown him out of the dream.

He swept a shaking hand across his face. Unnerved by the dream, he sat up. He had to get it out of his head. Nausea hit him as he registered the warm body near him. He half-turned and saw Voldemort’s eyes fixed on him. There was no trace of familiarity in them, only the insanity he remembered from the dream. He realised, then, that it had not been his dream.

Frightened, speechless, he stumbled out of the room, not even pausing to take his wand with him. 

It was the first time he had managed to Apparate flawlessly. He ended up before the gates of Hogwarts. He rushed in, and Fang came to greet him, barking joyously, but Harry paid no attention to the dog, running, running, running, until he fell on his knees before the white headstone that marked Dumbledore’s tomb. 

It was so that Snape found him at dawn, cold and shivering, wretched. Snape did not even bother with the usual courtesies of sniping and sarcasm, instead removing his heavy overcloak to drape it over Harry. Once Harry had ceased shivering, Snape gently coaxed him up and into the castle, into Dumbledore’s circular office, where Harry had heard a horrifying tale of the horcruxes and of insanity. Had that been a lifetime ago?

“I cannot help,” Snape said quietly, pouring him tea. Harry clung to the porcelain cup with his palms, treasuring the warmth and the solidity of it. 

“I cannot help even if I dared to,” Snape elaborated. “He has sealed off your memories associated with him.”

“There is still insanity,” Harry whispered, crying quietly, remembering the thrill of committing murder. He did not dare to think of the gaze that had fixed him petrified when he had woken up. That had not been a rational man. “Dumbledore was right about that.”

“There always was,” Snape pointed out in an even tone. “It is under control now. That is what matters. Don’t fuss over nothing.”

Harry shook his head, frightened and numb. How could he tell Snape what he had seen? It would not help. He was in too deep. He had to somehow deal with it on his own. Abraxas had managed. Harry had managed so far. He had to trust that the dream had simply been an aberration. 

Narcissa had been afraid for him. She had known the truth. Dumbledore had known the truth too, but had chosen to believe that Harry was capable of dealing with it. Harry wondered if he had known it too, but had simply chosen to deny it. 

Snape sighed and said softly, “Look at me.” 

Harry looked up and flinched at the pity on Snape’s features. 

“You have managed to rein him in,” Snape told him. “Don’t forget that. Yes, his willpower plays a significant role. You, however, have given him the motivation to exercise that will, to deny himself the gratification he finds in cruelty, swapping it instead for the pleasure of being loved.”

“I can’t-” Harry shook his head and attempted again. “What if that trade doesn’t work one day?”

“We have always lived under the shadow of that if,” Snape said calmly. “You and I both. We must trust that the status quo will hold. Dumbledore is dead. You are the Dark Lord’s now. And my hands are tied. For all our sakes, we had best hope that the Dark Lord values your love enough to set aside his other joys. It is not a fool’s hope, either. Remember that Abraxas Malfoy’s love sufficed for many, many years. You are closer to the Dark Lord than Abraxas ever was. You share a bond, your wands are connected, and there is fate’s thread linking your lives.”

—-

When Harry stepped into the dining chamber, he saw Voldemort standing by the window, looking out at the meadows. There was a slump to his shoulders, testifying to exhaustion. Had he waited for Harry since that episode in the middle of the night? 

“Harry,” he said, without turning around, and Harry knew him well enough to spot that thread of strain in his voice.

Had he expected Harry to stay at Hogwarts? To run into the safety of the Order? What had he expected Harry to do? Harry knew, as he had known even when frightened and crying, that he would return. He would always return. 

“Good morning,” Harry said quietly. “Maybe some Dreamless sleep won’t be a bad idea.”

Voldemort laughed at that and said wryly, “Why? It was not a nightmare. I enjoyed it.”

“I didn’t,” Harry replied, trying to keep his voice light and even. “A hero’s limitations, I guess.”

“True,” Voldemort murmured, exhaling deeply, and then turning to face Harry. 

The fear in his eyes took Harry by surprise, but he kept his expression neutral, and said, “A walk before breakfast, then? I wanted to show you the beehive in the hazel bushes.”

“You came back. Very heroic, perhaps? To spare the world?” Voldemort said darkly, having none of it, coating his fears with jibes.

“I came back to you. I came back home,” Harry said truthfully, exhausted. He walked the distance between them, and he saw Voldemort relax infinitesimally as Harry approached.

“I would apologise, but I truly had not intended to drag you along into my dreams,” Voldemort said then. “I regret the discomfort it caused you.”

Discomfort was too mild a term for the emotions Harry associated with the experience. He knew it was going to be the most he would get from Voldemort, so he nodded and closed the distance between with a kiss. 

It was a victory that he could put all thoughts of the night away from his head when Voldemort reciprocated and wrapped his arms around Harry’s shoulders. 

——

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I haven't an iota of skill in the art of writing good summaries. I apologise for that.)


	36. Let us sin to eat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry faces the consequences of his choice, and is none too happy about those.

Harry took a deep breath to steel himself as he knocked on the familiar, beloved door. There was the clang of utensils, and some voices shouting to each other in surprise, and then a rush of footsteps, and the door flung open. 

The Weasley matriarch flung herself into his open arms, crying and laughing, and then stepping back to look him over with a beaming smile.

“Wherever Severus took you to, there at least was enough to eat!” she exclaimed happily. “And look at you, all the dark circles around your eyes have vanished!” 

Harry grinned at her shyly and said truthfully, “He took me me to a safe place. I am only sad I could not write to you more frequently, and that we could not see each other.” 

“Harry!” 

It was Ginny. He greeted her with a warm hug and was gratified by her welcome. He had written to her once or twice, sticking only to the surface, unsure how to ask about the scandal, unsure if it was even his place to ask. Perhaps it was not as bad as they had feared. She was a woman now, with an air of self-confidence that only came to those who were truly loved. There was a rosiness to her cheeks and a glint in her eyes that spoke of good tidings. 

“He is good to you, then?” 

Mrs. Weasley rolled her eyes and went back in, demanding Harry to follow her. Ginny blushed and said smugly, “He is a good man.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Harry said frankly, patting her on the arm and then leading her into the house. 

There was much to speak about. Ron and Hermione, Mrs. Weasley was sure, were planning their marriage. Hermione’s parents wanted to meet them all. Charlie had returned to Romania, now that it was safe. Bill was also planning his return to Egypt. 

Arthur was not back at Ministry. What with the uncertain political situation, most Ministry workers had not been called to work. Percy was working still, as Fudge’s assistant. 

“Enough of all that!” Molly said, as Harry drank the tea and ate her cakes. “What have you been doing? Where have you been? Severus could not tell! We had been worried, but he repeatedly assuaged us that you were in the safest place that could be. Remus said that you had been to Hogwarts once or twice. Ron said that you needed to be alone…” She sighed sadly and looked at him. 

Yes, Dumbledore’s death had been pressing on him, suffocating, each time he had ventured outside Rheims. In that cottage, he could remain in eternal denial. How had Dumbledore planned to end the Horcrux hunt? 

“I was in France,” Harry said carefully. “One place looks very much the same as the other, especially since I don’t speak the language. There is a housekeeper and plenty of food. It has not been difficult.”

“The Prophet has gone utterly off the rails in their speculation. So many reports on your life on the Continent, maybe on the beaches of Corsica, with your Muggle man.”

Harry grinned at that. He ought to buy a few copies to take them to Voldemort. He was sure Voldemort would get riled over the speculation. 

“I don’t have a Muggle man,” he assured Molly. 

“I noticed that you are not denying the existence of a man,” Molly said, smiling wanly. “Remus has suspected it for a long time. Ron too, I think.”

Remus had heard Harry’s confession during that summer. It had been so long ago. 

Ron was perceptive when it came to Harry. He needed to be careful. While his memories were safe, he was a poor liar. Had Dumbledore warned anyone? It seemed unlikely. Dumbledore had rarely disseminated critical or sensitive information.

“How did Severus know?” Molly wondered. “Remus suspected that he might be the lover.”

Harry laughed, thinking back to Slughorn’s comments. The sheer ridiculousness of it amused him. Snape could hardly stand him for a few minutes in a day. While Dumbledore, Snape and Narcissa all had assumed that Harry must be masochistic to be involved with Voldemort, he truly did not think that as a cause. Voldemort preferred equality in a relationship, and nurtured Harry’s fledgling attempts to establish himself on an even footing. Snape on the other hand, Harry laughed again helplessly. Snape loved inequality and putting his beloveds on a pedestal he could never hope to attain. 

“Yes, that was my reaction too,” Molly said, smiling. “He is a good man, but I really could not see it.”

“Snape is good at finding out secrets,” Harry said easily. Internally, he wondered how he could snuff out Molly’s curiosity. Seeming to sense his dilemma, she poured him more tea and ruffled his hair.

“You have never looked healthier, Harry. If that man keeps you healthy and happy, I can hardly complain, can I? You will tell me when you are ready.”

——

Harry was hesitant about his next destination. He decided to go anyway. Narcissa was there, sewing, sitting by the window. She gave him a weak smile and left him alone with her sister. Bellatrix was sitting on the couch, and Harry could see a marked improvement in her. The scars were ghastly. What had they done to her? It reminded Harry of the curse he had foolishly used on Draco. Snape had been furious with him then. 

“I came to thank you,” Harry said briskly, trying not to show how unnerved he was by her heavy, lidded gaze. 

“I didn’t do it for you,” she said. 

Her voice was hoarse and broken, as if there was significant damage to her voice chords. The thought of her, even of her, alone in those catacombs, tortured until her voice had given away, made Harry wretched. 

“I know that,” he said. “I am thanking you still, because you saved me.”

“This gratitude weakness will get you killed, Potter.”

“Your devotion almost got you killed,” Harry pointed out. “Multiple times. We all make our choices.”

“You chose to be grateful today. Dumbledore would be so proud of you. My cousin wouldn’t be. He was an ungrateful cunt.”

Don’t go near Sirius, Harry begged in his mind. Why couldn’t she let it be? He wanted her dead for vengeance, for Sirius, for Neville’s parents. He was grateful for what she had done to save him, even if it was only because of Voldemort. 

“Recover well,” he said quietly, and left the room. 

Outside, Narcissa told him, “Thank you for coming. I know she does not understand, but I value your wishes. Only the Dark Lord and you have visited. Not even her husband has come to see her. He is waiting for her to die. All of them are.” She smiled wanly. “I understand why. Yet, she is my sister.”

And Andromeda was not? Harry did not know what to make of that hypocrisy. 

When had Voldemort visited? It made sense, though. Voldemort was quite fond of Bellatrix. He had gone to great lengths to save her after Canterbury. 

“She seems to be on the mend,” Harry said carefully. 

“The prognosis was bleak,” Narcissa replied. “The Dark Lord intervened then. Whatever he did has restored a measure of mobility to her, breaking that comatose state we found her in. She had been there for days. They could not break through the barriers to find you. So they took out their rage on her. When Severus found her, he barely recognised what was left of her.” There she paused to compose herself back to stoic calm. “When the Dark Lord told me to leave the chamber, I feared he had decided to grant her the final boon.” 

A kill of mercy. 

Harry had been ready to perform the act, in that dungeon, when he had held Voldemort in his arms, awaiting Grindelwald. What might Dumbledore have said about that? Dumbledore did not believe in dispensing death. 

Yet, sometimes, wasn’t there more dignity in death? Wasn’t it sometimes more merciful to kill?

Uncomfortably, Harry wondered if Voldemort derived the same pleasure in kills of mercy as he did on the battlefield. He did not care to know. Oh, look at what it had all come to! Such denial for the sake of the domestic harmony would impress even Aunt Petunia. 

——

Harry drank a glass of milk before heading to bed. He had seen Petunia giving Dudley a glass when he complained that he could not fall asleep. She had given a glass of warm milk, he remembered. He shrugged. He would remember to warm it the next time.

He wiped his lips on the sleeve of his shirt and blew out the candles by the side of the bed. Voldemort had headed out after an early dinner, with a distracted goodbye, telling Harry not to wait up. 

He must have summoned a meeting. Harry needed to find out his plans. Harry needed to talk to Remus and Alastor. He needed to see Flitwick. He took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to calm his mind as Snape had tried to teach him. He kept on, again and again, until his mind was drifting free. 

When he opened his eyes, he was kneeling before a gravestone, and he saw Lucius standing over him, looking displeased, and holding an umbrella over Harry’s head. An umbrella?

Then Harry spoke, and it was not Harry anymore, “I believe I am perfectly capable of keeping myself dry, Lucius.”

“Of course, my lord,” Lucius said calmly. “However, I am here.”

“Why are you here?” 

Here was a meadow, surrounded by tall woods. It was raining and it was cold. Harry, no, Voldemort, rose to his feet and stepped out of the circle of Lucius’s umbrella, away from the plain gravestones before them. Gravestones? Abraxas’s! And the other must be Eloise’s, though Harry could not see the name inscribed. Harry wondered why they had been buried away from the family graves. 

“Do you wish to summon a meeting this week?” 

Voldemort did not reply, still looking at the tombstones. 

“Fudge has been clamouring to see you.”

That brought forth no response either. Instead, Voldemort placed a hand on Eloise’s grave as if to impart warmth to the dead, as if to draw reassurance from the memory. 

“Potter has been bumbling around, trying to find out what everyone is planning.”

“Tell me, Lucius, are there bones?” 

Lucius sighed, and looked as if he wanted to be anywhere else but there, but he said softly, “There are.”

“Tell me.”

“I followed Severus that night. I had been keeping an eye on him. I came to Godric’s Hollow. He was too shell-shocked to react. I knew Dumbledore would come, that he had been keeping an eye on Severus too.”

“You did not warn me.”

Lucius steeled himself, and his voice was fearful as he responded, “I had tried.”

“You had moved Abraxas’s grave then.”

“No,” Lucius whispered, and his hands were white gripped around the handle of the umbrella. He was shaking. Harry could smell the fear on him. And finally Harry understood what the second grave meant. Godric’s Hollow. 

“No, my lord. I had my father buried here, after the funeral. I had the second grave dug then.”

“You did not expect me to survive.”

“I—” Lucius gulped and said, “If I had to bury you, I wanted to bury you beside the man who loved you.”

Harry had never seen that softness to Lucius’s eyes before, not even when looking upon Draco. Harry wondered what it meant, what it meant that a man like Lucius had revered Voldemort enough to risk Azkaban, to risk his young family, by going to Godric’s Hollow to retrieve Voldemort’s corpse. Harry had been the only living creature left in the debris, and there had been the bodies of Harry’s parents. Hagrid had said that there had been nothing left of Voldemort’s body. His hand, no, Voldemort’s hand was skeletal against the thick, white marble of the headstone.

“Before—” Voldemort hesitated, uncharacteristically. ”I would have preferred cremation, but if it was to be burial, there is no other place I would choose, than by his side.”

Lucius nodded awkwardly. Voldemort did not say anything for a while. Then he asked quietly, “Where is Eloise buried?”

“In the family mausoleum,” Lucius replied tightly. There was grief in his eyes, and the faint shadow of accusation. “She had wasted away, in mind and body. When she slit her wrists in the bathtub, I could not condemn her. There was little to bury. If I had been a braver man, I would have spared her the suffering.”

Harry wondered how Lucius dealt with it all. He must have known, from a young age, that his parents were not lovers. He must have known that Abraxas was tied to Voldemort. Later, after Abraxas’s death, he had definitely known that Eloise had gone to Voldemort’s bed. Then, after everything, he had to stand and watch Eloise’s deterioration. 

“Why are you here?”

“My father’s portraits cannot give you what you seek. Neither can his gravestone.”

Harry felt a sense of crippling abandonment seep through the bond, into the crevices of his mind, and there was such loneliness. An irrevocable alienation. Was this how Dumbledore had felt, when his peers had died, when he had only students to converse with? 

“You have a clever tongue, Lucius,” Voldemort said lightly. “Now, I must be off on my way. Give my regards to Narcissa.”

“Bella has recovered significantly. She will defend your interests in a manner I might not be able to explain away to Fudge and the rest of the country. Call a meeting, my lord.”

—-

Harry woke and heard the sound of the door creaking open.

“Are you awake still?” Voldemort murmured, walking softly to the bed. When he slipped in beside Harry, pulling him close, Harry wondered how much of it was habit and how much had been triggered by the night’s revelations. 

“I saw Bellatrix Lestrange today. She is close to her normal, spiteful, lunatic self,” Harry said carefully. 

“Won’t Cornelius be delighted!” 

“No, he won’t be,” Harry replied dryly. “Nobody sane would be.”

“The last time she went on an adventure, she stirred your attention. Outraged, you came to kill me. Now here we are. Perhaps, this time again, she will bring to my bed a nubile, young man.”

“Tired of this nubile, young man?” Harry asked, laughing, despite the worries in his mind about Voldemort’s plans for Britain. 

A long finger came to trace Harry’s nose. Voldemort said, still wrapped in thoughts Harry was not privy to, “I wonder if you realised that exposure to that drug you cleverly brought to do away with me addled your head too, though to a lesser extent than it did mine.”

Harry had wondered that often, when he had read about rohypnol in Snape’s chemistry textbook, when he had been recuperating in the hospital wing. It had covered a great amount of basic theory, which he would have glossed over usually, but had felt compelled to read because he had had that niggling suspicion in the back of his mind. 

How much had his Muggle tranquilizer dart affected him? He did not feel too badly about it, given the consequences. Yet, would he have followed through with his planned murder had he not been under the influence? That bothered him. He liked to think that he had not been capable of murder. Hadn’t he killed Wormtail mercilessly though? Had he not wanted to do the same to Grindelwald?

“Did you suspect that I had your soul? Was that why you didn’t kill me?”

Perhaps Voldemort had not wanted to mess with ancient magic again. Godric’s Hollow must have taught him fear.

Voldemort did not reply immediately. Harry thought he might have decided to be silent. Then he spoke, cautiously, as if picking his words with great thought. 

“I cannot answer as to my exact motivations. It was a mixture of factors, I suspect. It gave me pleasure to be an object of a man’s honest lust, after everything that had happened. That it was you made the experience more remarkable. I had been brought low by grief, in a multitude of ways, and had hibernated, as you say so quaintly, to sort out my weariness with the world. My pleasures of earlier, involving violence and reform, and reform by violence, did not fulfill me. There had been a purpose, nebulous, of finishing it all one day, and of then having Abraxas by my side as I wished. I had viewed it as a journey to him, to a time when he could put aside pretence and take his place in the world I had built for us. My motivation had been strong to reach that journey’s end. Perhaps I should have learned from the tales of Apollo and Hyacinthus, from the tales of Alexander and Hephastion, from the tales of Daniel and Jonathan. It is ironic that I was built out of cynicism and a lack of faith, of promises broken and betrayal, and even so, I believed that Abraxas was destined to be mine, in the end, in the same way that a child believes in St. Nicholas.”

“You returned from Rheims, though.”

“I did not know what else to do then. Loss suffocated me.” There was a brutal brokenness in Voldemort’s tone, harsh and withholding nothing, that Harry wanted to ease somehow. “I had not been cognisant enough to realise that I was trying to do away with myself, in all the ways I knew. I rarely used magic. I walked dangerous alleys and provoked men larger than me into fights I hoped to end everything with. I had sex so depraved with men cruel and unhinged, and found bitter delight in telling myself that even my mother had not fallen so low. I wanted it to end. It didn’t. I came back when I tired of failing. Abraxas’s carefully selected Inner Circle did not approve but knew that I possessed little in the way of control or sanity. I summoned meetings at my whim, in places undesirable, and wondered why they came still, and dared them to do what they didn’t have the courage or the conscience to do, and mocked them for their inevitable failures. It was tempered, at least to a minor degree, when Eloise came to my bed. It frightened me, in a way very little had before. Fright brought a temporary return of purpose.”

Harry cuddled closer and pressed his face to Voldemort’s chest, and the mad staccato of the heart under the thin ribcage frightened him. He splayed his palm over the skin, as if to soothe, as if to hold and protect, as if to undo the past, knowing though that it was a fanciful notion. It was all beyond him to understand, he thought despondently. It was unlike what Ron and Hermione had, unlike what Harry had once wanted with Ginny or Cho. It did not seem conceivable that anyone else would have taken the loss of a lover so hard, that they would try to ruin themselves and the world simultaneously. 

“Is that why you don’t like rough sex with me?” he asked in a small voice, trying to acknowledge what Voldemort had said, without saying anything too trite that gave away his inability to say the right thing.

“Oh, that has never held any pleasure for me,” Voldemort said easily, pressing a kiss to Harry’s forehead in a manner so habitual that it made Harry’s chest constrict in a sad sort of happiness. Hermione would have called it an oxymoron. 

“Countless numbers of men have courted me over the years, and somehow most of them believed that I would be either sadistic or masochistic in the bedroom. Perhaps there were rumours. Perhaps they theorised based on the Freudian school of psychoanalysis. I know not the causes.” 

“I heard that you treated Eloise very well,” Harry remembered. “Even if she wasn’t your type, you did your best to make it work.”

“Severus could never resist gossip,” Voldemort muttered. “I am convinced that is the reason why he got along with Dumbledore. For all her faults, Minerva McGonagall is no gossip.”

“He was right, though, wasn’t he?” Harry pressed on. “You tried hard to make it a relationship of equals. I doubt I could have done that, especially if the circumstances had been that bad. When it was Ginny, I didn’t really care that it was unbalanced.”

He cared more now for an equal partnership, but he was sure that this desire had come from Voldemort’s influence and unflinching determination to build that between them. 

“You wonder so about what my plans are. My ranks wish to know the same. Fudge fears. Meanwhile, I am still finding my footing in that world, not unlike how a battle-torn cripple relearns life. Is it so unnatural that I have chosen to stay awhile in the safe confides of where I know what I desire, in the realm of hearth and home? I have a partner who is rapidly growing into the man that is truly my equal in many ways. I sense constancy here. Why would I step away from that into an uncertain world?” 

“For the same reason you did once,” Harry said quietly. 

How could he explain? Remus and Moody, and Fudge, and almost everybody else, wanted Bellatrix dead. Most of them also were worried about Voldemort. While they had a modicum of respect for what Voldemort had done in the war against Grindelwald and for the great personal risk he had borne, Harry doubted it extended to gratitude or goodwill. Harry himself was feared, because of his connection to Voldemort. This was, in many ways, more complicated than the world Abraxas and Tom Riddle had lived in. 

Voldemort waited patiently for him to finish his thoughts. Harry was touched by that. 

“Neither of us are individuals, are we? We are cause and consequence, we are figureheads by destiny or choice. Nobody wants to fight another war so soon, and they are worried about the power balances. Bellatrix told me we were dispensable after the war. It is about the only sane thing she has uttered in our conversations.” 

“The power of magic is all that matters, Harry. They will wait until I am ready.”

“Is it all that matters?” Harry asked carefully. “All of your actions cannot be explained so easily, I think. Dumbledore said you were driven by obsession, I know you were driven by something else, but the motivation was not always power.”

“I cannot pursue any other motivation unless I have power. In that sense, power is always my first motivation. The power of my magic protects me, and it protects that which I value. After your mentor’s death, I was all that stood between you and your grisly demise.”

“You are right about that, but there is more than just the power of magic, you know. In that dungeon, even when there wasn’t magic, you saved me. I think you would have been successful in the Muggle world too, if you had chosen that, if life had chosen that for you. Power is more than just magic. It is that brain of yours, how fast you make connections, how quickly you plan and adapt to change, how easily you charm and inspire people, and how ruthless you can be.” Harry paused uncertainly. Taking a deep breath, he continued, “It is also your heart. You give me so much without flinching. In your place, if I had lived your life, I may not able to do that. Not many people can, honestly. Your power over me is very strong, and it is only the power of your heart.” 

——

“Dumbledore left this in my safekeeping.” Horace pointed to the phials on his desk. They were lined up neatly amidst the debris of candy wrappers and boxes of crystallised pineapples. 

“Such a sweet tooth is not good for you,” Harry said automatically, thinking of Petunia and Dudley.

“Magic will save me, my boy. The benefits of being a wizard!” Horace chortled. 

Harry was taken back to his conversation with Voldemort about the power of magic. Maybe wizards could afford to be less careful with their health, because of what magic could do. Maybe death hit them harder, because it was one thing that even magic could not offer a solution to, unless they were prepared to buy it with murder and a destroyed soul, with magic most foul. He cast a smile at Horace and nodded. His attention moved to the phials. 

“Must be Tom,” Horace said with a sigh. “Albus could not resist collecting him.”

Harry knew that. Oh, how Harry knew that! 

Even at the end, when driven to death by Grindelwald, Dumbledore had still delivered a master-stroke, trapping Voldemort into facing himself, into facing what was in his heart, smoothly making sure that Harry was still protected by a wizard as powerful as Dumbledore had been. Harry knew that Dumbledore had only believed Voldemort capable of obsession, but Dumbledore had known that obsession had been enough once, for Voldemort to give up a war and sanity both. It was lucky for Voldemort that Dumbledore had not figured out the rest of the story.

“Take the phials, Harry.” 

Harry hesitated. Did he truly wish to know more? What purpose would that serve? As Snape had said, he was Voldemort’s. There was nobody else to turn to. Dumbledore was dead. Whatever new knowledge Dumbledore had deemed to give Harry would only do harm to his domestic harmony, right? He did not want to be a hero. He never had. He had only wanted to do the right thing. And now the right thing was not as clear cut as it once had been, not when his heart had morphed so.

Horace rose to his feet ponderously and patted a flapper of a hand on Harry’s shoulder, before taking his leave.

Harry took a deep breath and conjured a bag to place the vials in. He would hide them in the Room of Requirement. 

——

“How are you doing?” Hermione asked, as they walked hand in hand at Victoria Park. 

Harry removed his gloves and pulled them on her cold hands. She murmured her thanks and said something under her breath about Ron never doing that. 

He laughed and told her, “We men are always gentlemen until we get what we are after, Hermione.”

She laughed too, surprised, and asked, “Where have you been learning such nuggets of gender wisdom?”

“I have been living in France. Gender wisdom is their principal hobby.”

“And eating too, no doubt!” she said. “Look at you! You look so healthy and handsome!” 

He bussed a kiss on her cold cheek, as he had often see Dumbledore do with Amelia Bones and Griselda Marchbanks. 

“You have gone and become a proper Frenchman!” she scolded him, though he knew that her heart was not in it. 

He wondered if Ron’s lack of romantic gestures was a point of contention between them, even if unvoiced. Maybe he should tell Ron to be more expressive, though he found it hard to imagine Ron talking about feelings and mushy things. It wasn’t in Ron’s nature. 

There was a lone angler trying his luck at the bathing pond. They paused in their walk to watch him as he stuck bait to rod placidly and sat back. 

“I learned to fish,” Harry said. 

“You?” she asked, again surprised. “I didn’t think you had the patience for it.”

Harry thought he was a very patient soul, all said and done. He had been forced into that, what with Dumbledore’s way of handing over information, and what with Voldemort’s almost equally exasperating tendency towards playing his cards close to his chest. 

“So are you going to tell me about this boyfriend of yours?” she asked. 

Clearly, she had been bursting to pose that question. Unlike Ron and Molly, who had been content to let things lie until Harry was ready to speak, Hermione needed to know everything. It was one of the reasons why Harry had avoided meeting her alone. He could not put it off any further though, not when he desired to see her and make sure that she was all right. 

“Older man,” he said carefully. “I don’t think I can tell you more, Hermione. Not because I don’t want to, but he made me promise.”

“What?” she asked, confused. “Why would he do that? If he is not a Muggle, he should know who you are. You are the best catch he could hope for. Why wouldn’t he want to proclaim that? Ginny, back in school, was proud to show you off at each chance she got.”

With the notches on Voldemort’s bedpost, Harry was fairly sure that he was not as prized a catch as he would be on someone else’s bedpost, comparatively. Voldemort had skimmed the cream of the Muggle intelligentsia. Were there any politicians? He would have to ask. 

“Is it a French wizard? Remus thinks it must be one of those generals from the French Aurors who came to meet Dumbledore frequently during the siege of Calais. He thinks that is why Professor Snape found out. He thinks that is why Professor Snape smuggled you to France for safekeeping.”

“He is as French as they come,” Harry said wryly, leading Hermione away from a puddle. She was too engrossed in the conversation to pay attention to her path. “Very well read. All about the fine life. Escargots and truffles.” 

“I didn’t think that was your type,” Hermione said. “Ginny wasn’t anything like that.”

“Sometimes these matters have nothing to do with type.” 

Only look at Bellatrix Lestrange and poor Sirius. Harry certainly would not have pegged her to be Sirius’s type. Was Arthur Molly’s type? Was Ron Hermione’s type? 

“Ron often said that you were like Dumbledore,” Hermione said quietly. “He didn’t think you would settle down and marry. He didn’t think you would be satisfied with that manner of life.”

Ron was very perceptive. Harry would have married Ginny, motivated by family and belonging, motivated by peer pressure. He doubted its success though. When would things have fallen apart? Ginny was a treasure, bless her, full of passion and a love for life, brightly optimistic and not inclined to spend time brooding over the past. It was for the best that she had found a man who loved her the way she was meant to be loved. 

Was Harry like Dumbledore? No. He doubted Dumbledore had ever fallen in love the way he had. Petunia had not fallen in love either. She had married for social reasons, for economic reasons, and because she disliked being alone. Perhaps he was more like Voldemort, in his craving to belong, in his need to be obsessed over. 

“I wish to meet him, Harry,” Hermione said firmly. “I cannot accept his reasons to conceal such an important part of your life from your family and friends. He protected you during the war. I wish to thank him.”

“I will see what I can do,” he lied. “What about you, Hermione? What do you plan to do now that the war is over? Do you wish to return to the Unspeakables?”

She hesitated for a while, before replying, “I don’t know yet, Harry. Ron and I had always thought that we would be with you until we had helped you defeat You Know Who. Then I had wanted to teach at Hogwarts. I think I still want to. I am not sure. It depends also on what Ron plans. He said he wishes to go to Romania with Charlie for a few months.”

“A few months away, on vacation, won’t hurt you at all,” Harry told her frankly. He turned to look her over. Her features were gaunt and she looked so weary. Her nights during the war had been long, as she had scrambled to decode messages from the warfront. “The past few years have been difficult on all of us. Go somewhere you have wanted to go, alone. I think it will help you find out what you want to do. It is safe enough.” 

“Maybe Geneva,” she said distractedly. “I like Geneva. I haven’t taken a holiday alone before. My parents have always had to drag me along.”

“Geneva it is then,” Harry told her firmly. “I will come visit if you are too bored. I have never been there.”

“I will teach you to ski!” she said, enthused all of a sudden. Of course, she always felt purposeful when she could teach someone something. She truly was cut out for teaching. “Oh, Harry! This is a splendid idea.” 

They walked in silence for a while, each wrapped in their own thoughts, before Hermione asked tentatively, “Any news of You Know Who?”

Harry knew he could not lie. Remus, Mad-Eye and many others had pieces enough to put together at least certain parts of Harry’s story. 

“I met him,” he said. “He is not dying. I think he is lying low for a while, plotting. For what it is worth, I don’t think we have anything to worry about. The truce was highly favourable to him. He is unlikely to discard it, especially when he has an opportunity to enter mainstream politics flush on the success of his Grindelwald gambit. He suffered heavy losses in the war. Why would he risk being labelled a terrorist again? He doesn’t have the forces to win, and he has an extremely biased truce in his favour.” 

“You met him?” Hermione asked, thoughtful. “Professor Snape says that you are safe from him. Is it because of the enchantment? Remus wants to break that.”

“Yes, it is better not to,” Harry said, seizing upon the opportunity. “I am safe because of it. I am tired of fighting, Hermione. And without Dumbledore, I don’t want to. I want to live now.”

She instinctively came to hug him and there were tears in her eyes when she said, “Live then, Harry. That is all I want for you. I will ask Remus to stop. I am sure that he will understand. If it is your decision to stop fighting, who are we to decide otherwise?”

——

Harry found Voldemort near the beehives, wearing a weird looking netted contraption. One of those came to envelop him whole as he ventured closer. 

“They are quite restless today,” Voldemort told him. “I thought I ought to investigate in case they take their wrath on Clara when she comes to gather herbs.”

There were many lying dead on the grass. Harry wondered what had happened. He had noticed that the bees were territorial and defensive. They had often attacked wasps in droves, even if it meant their death. 

“How do they signal to each other?” Harry asked. 

“Pheromones. Their sting unleashes pheromones that warns other bees in the vicinity. I have to say that I find them fascinating. Why do they die so? They could stay out of the battle, hide away, and let their queen handle the attacker by herself. After all, her sting does not kill her.” 

Harry did not know a lot about bees. Clara, the housekeeper, had a few books on bee-keeping. They were in French, unfortunately. Maybe he should try reading them, if only to learn a bit of the language. 

“A honey buzzard, most likely,” Voldemort was saying. “Must have forgotten to migrate to Africa.”

“I told Hermione that my lover is as French as they come. All about the shameless, fine life.”

“As long as you don’t have to sin to eat,” Voldemort said, smiling at Harry. 

“Sin to eat?” Harry asked, confused.

“Oliver Twist, Harry. The prudish and practical Englishman frowns down upon the fine life, because he doesn’t sin to eat.”

Harry thought about Remus and the werewolves. Remus had found it hard to hold a job because of the taboo of being a werewolf. The wizarding public had looked down upon his kind. His valiant defense of the country had put him in the spotlight and Harry hoped that it did a great deal to change the public’s perception. Now Remus was a major political player.

“Have you ever known a politician?” Harry asked, curious, as he watched Voldemort sprinkle what smelled like a Calming Potion over the hives. Did it work on bees? Harry doubted Snape approved of the usage.

“In a manner forbidden by Leviticus?” Voldemort wondered. “Only one. In my defence, I hadn’t known his profession at the time.”

“Why? Do you have anything against politicians?”

Petunia did not approve of politicians. She did not approve of bankers, policemen and lawyers too, Harry remembered. 

“He was a Keynesian, shockingly liberal, and a minister in the Attlee government.” Voldemort shuddered. “As you can imagine, that did not align with my political leanings. Luckily, he was decadent in his private life. His mansion in Kensington, furnished with antiques from China and Moroccan rugs, was a stark contrast to the austerity measures he advocated.”

“So he did not skimp on his blankets?” Harry asked, amused. The bees had settled down. The potion had worked.

“You know me so well,” Voldemort said, removing the nets from them both. Harry ventured close to kiss him. 

“I thought politicians were usually married,” Harry remarked, remembering Petunia’s tirade about men in politics who were not married by thirty.

“He was,” Voldemort said, taking Harry’s arm and leading him back to the house. “He had a few mistresses too. He was a very good politician.”

“How did you fall in with such a man?” Harry asked, befuddled. “Was he brilliant?” 

“His arse could have launched a thousand ships,” Voldemort informed him. “As a man of discernment, I could hardly resist.”

Harry supposed that it was an improvement compared to some of Tom Riddle’s choices in school. 

“So you can imagine my shock when you accused me of sleeping with our beloved Cornelius,” Voldemort continued merrily.

“I can’t say that I have noticed Fudge’s arse,” Harry said, trying to keep his tone light, because that Christmas night was still a harsh memory. Would he have returned if not for Dumbledore’s subtle coaxing?

“Fortunate for you. I, on the other hand, will have to contemplate it very soon, since I am meeting him in three days.”

“You are ready?” Harry asked, nervous. He had not expected Voldemort to venture out any time soon. He still had not spoken to Remus or Flitwick. 

“You had the right of it. They will not leave you alone. They will not stop their speculation about me. My ranks are restless. There is no reason to throw away the benefits of the truce, merely because I am devoid of purpose.”

“Have you found a purpose then?” Harry asked carefully.

An explosion rocked the grounds then. Birds flew up into the air, cawing. The house was covered by a plume of black smoke. The flower beds were on fire. 

Harry clung to Voldemort, planting his feet firm on the ground, instinct leading him to grab his wand and cast a shield around them. 

“Clara!” he said, breaking into a run. 

Voldemort stopped him with a forceful hand on his wrist.

“She is at the market. Harry, we are not alone. The bees were restless! I was a fool to have taken it so lightly. Stay put.”

A blaze of red light cut across the lawns, crashing and breaking on Harry’s shield. The next flash was green, a green that haunted Harry’s dreams. Voldemort pushed Harry down to his knees and cast a spell that enveloped him in a red miasma. Harry spoke, but the miasma distorted his voice and all that came out was incoherent gurgles. Voldemort had ventured out of the reach of Harry’s shields. Where was his wand? Oh no, Harry realised that Voldemort did not have it with him. He had probably left it at the house, as was his habit. 

“Looking for this?” Moody asked, coming up to face Voldemort. In his hand was Voldemort’s wand of yew. He bent it slightly and Harry sensed alarm flare high in the bond, though Voldemort’s face did not betray emotion. 

With him was Amelia Bones and a few others Harry did not recognise at first sight. Order members? Remus was not there. 

Harry had to intervene. The miasma held him captive. He had to break it, somehow. 

“I don’t require a wand to put you down like the rabid dog you are,” Voldemort was saying, as he took in the number of opponents. 

Green burst his way, and he swerved away. Why didn’t he fly? Harry wondered if he required a wand for that. 

It was a dance to avoid death, and Harry felt the miasma lose potency as Voldemort’s concentration became fully taken with avoiding the curses sent his way. Moody was a veteran, strong on the offensive, and his team was tightly coordinated. They had planned this. While Harry had been foolish enough to believe the truce, Moody had been planning this all along. Amelia’s curse caught Voldemort on the arm, and blood spattered his robes thick. He soared into the air, to regroup, to cast a healing charm fast upon his wounds, but the curses flew towards the miasma enveloping then. Voldemort landed again, to direct their attention back to him. 

Harry swore and broke through the weakened miasma with a strong severing charm. He was surprised that it worked. Then again, as Dumbledore had been fond of saying, it rarely took fancy spells to undo most protective enchantments. It only took magical power and intent. 

“Potter first!” Moody roared. 

Harry could see the fear in Voldemort’s eyes as he rushed to Harry. Harry felt wards against Apparation come up. He cast a strong shield again and moved close to Voldemort. 

“We have a truce!” he yelled. “Don’t be foolish!” 

Moody threw a green beam in response. Voldemort swerved them both out of the way of the curse. Harry saw drops of sweat beading Voldemort’s brow. Why was he so hesitant, on the defensive? Harry felt fear in the bond. Voldemort wanted to kill, but did not wish to kill before Harry, fearful of how Harry might abandon him.

“Sectumsempra!” Harry shouted, at the closest attacker, and he fell to the ground bleeding. Fear pounded Harry, and he felt so guilty, and he was inordinately glad that he did not know the man, but he knew only that would ease Voldemort’s mind. They needed to live. They needed to survive this. Moody wanted them dead. He offered his wand to Voldemort. 

This time, there was no hesitancy as Voldemort took Harry’s wand and killed. He was ruthlessly efficient and Harry was crying as Amelia fell. Only Moody was left. Voldemort hesitated for a moment before disarming him and tying him up.

“Don’t!” Harry pleaded, worried that Voldemort would torture him. 

“I need to find out how he came here,” Voldemort said calmly, walking towards the veteran. Moody spat at him. 

Voldemort did not waste words or time. Harry felt the shredding of Moody’s mind as Voldemort entered brutally with his Legilimency, sparing no thought to finesse. Harry knew that it would not leave sanity. 

“Blood magic,” Voldemort was saying. “Your blood. He tracked you by the blood. We are not safe here anymore. We shall spend the night on the Isle of Man.”

There was no lucidity left in Moody’s eyes. Harry forced himself to keep looking. It was the result of his choice to love Voldemort, he told himself. He had to face what the consequences were. 

Voldemort picked up his wand from Moody’s hand and said distastefully, “I shall have to clean this thoroughly.”

“You should carry it with you,” Harry said numbly, looking away, looking at the ruin of their cottage. 

He heard the words. He saw the green from the corner of his eyes. He heard the thud of a body on the brown earth. He did not turn back. Instead, he methodically began casting spells to contain and douse the fires. 

“Harry, we cannot stay.”

Was there anything left of Abraxas's portrait? Of Eloise's?

“You told me about the power of magic, about the power of your magic. Cast your wards,” Harry said coldly. “I am not leaving. This is our home.”

——


	37. This composed wonder of your soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry gets drunk, finds himself in a pickle, and solves it, and then practices the fine art of oblivion.

—— 

It had not been a trivial enterprise to coax Voldemort into staying. Harry had tried to persuade him while tending to his wounded arm that still bled from Amelia’s curse. Voldemort had disagreed vehemently with Harry’s intention to stay. 

“We are in danger,” he had emphasized. “Do you realise that Moody would have alerted many, many others before venturing here on what he knew as a suicide mission?”

“If we are in danger, we are in danger,” Harry had said. “He tracked me by my blood. These men he confided in could do the same. I am not deserting my home because of that.”

“In terms of what the theory of magic dictates, this is not your home. Harry, this was Abraxas’s land, and that of his forefathers before. He had bequeathed it to me. However, neither of us are of his blood. The strongest defenses, as your late mentor was fond of reiterating, are those of blood.”

“He was fond of saying that I was the safest at Aunt Petunia’s,” Harry pointed out. “Will you now say the same? You may as well as keep me safe as he did, sealing me there.”

“You are safe with me. I am of your blood.”

Harry had suppressed a nervous laugh at that. Indeed. Voldemort was of his blood. Did that add an element of incest too then? 

“I will not leave,” he said with finality. “I am not an expert on the theory of magic, but I know that this is my home, where we found a measure of peace. Will you ask me to leave that behind?”

“Ironic that I have chosen to flee all my life and you have chosen to stand your ground all your life,” Voldemort said wryly, turning away to cast spells on the charred window-frames. “So be it, then. Make what you can out of this debris.”

“What will you do? Are you going to summon a meeting?” Harry asked. Voldemort could not keep his Inner Circle in the dark about this, could he? 

“I need to.” Voldemort looked at Harry. “I shall have to take you with me. Oh, don’t be cross! I promise to bring you back home if you desire, afterwards.”

—-

Abraxas’s portrait was unusually silent. Harry sat himself on the couch that Bellatrix had claimed when they had been trying to find Slughorn. 

“Try to be safe,” Voldemort said distractedly, kissing Harry swiftly and then walking over to inspect the portrait. Sadness overwhelmed his features then. 

“I did not realise, Abraxas,” he whispered to the portrait. The response was only a wan smile. Voldemort nodded and left the room.

“What is it?” Harry asked the portrait worriedly. 

“I have to confess I understand little of the theory of magic,” the portrait said sadly. “I do understand a little more now. The Auror cast his spells of fire at the portraits first. A wise measure, since often these raids go awry when portraits carry word to alert others. I escaped into a portrait at Grimmauld. However…it had been the only portrait of her. There was no place to escape to.”

Harry had not known Eloise. He had only put some pieces of her life together from what others remembered. She had become dear to him nonetheless. He grit his teeth and muttered a few words of sympathy and consolation to the portrait. They did little to fill the yawning gap in his heart. 

“Potter!” 

The door opened and it was Snape, looking worried. Harry had not seen him so worried after the war.

“He told Skeeter,” Snape said tiredly. “He must have told many others, belonging to different factions, in different countries.”

Rita! Harry cursed. It was only a few hours before her expose would hit the presses. Had Moody also alerted other journalists? 

“Sensational, just as they prefer,” Snape said, scowling at Harry. 

Was it his fault now? Harry took a deep breath and tried to channel Dumbledore. What would Dumbledore have done? He had weathered the tumult caused by Fudge and Umbridge in Harry’s fifth year. He had weathered so many scandals effortlessly. How had he managed that? The chances of containment seemed abysmal.

“Would it help to try convincing Rita?” he asked. 

Hermione had succeeded at that before. Oh, Hermione! And Ron! And Remus! And the entire Weasley family. Hagrid. Harry raked his fingers through his hair. How would they react? They would not forgive him for keeping them in the dark. They would not forgive him for the truth either. 

“This cannot be in the newspapers,” he said firmly. “What should I do?”

“I thought you liked being on the headlines,” Snape said, with a fair tinge of bitterness. 

Oh, they weren’t past all that, then. Harry resisted the urge to retort. It would get them nowhere. A man cannot help his nature, as Petunia was fond of saying with a sniff whenever contemplating alcoholics, addicts, criminals, and Harry. 

Baited into helpfulness by Harry’s lack of reaction, Snape said thoughtfully, “Perhaps you could give an exclusive. Perhaps you could set her right on the scandalous report from the late, lamented Moody. After all, wasn’t he said to be a paranoid man who shot spells at dustbins in the middle of the night? After all, hasn’t she clamoured to have an exclusive interview with you oft before? You had best convince her thoroughly, before the Dark Lord deals with the matter in his nominal manner.”

Yes, Harry worried about that. However, his concerns had to do with the medium of print itself. How many would read it in the morning? Word would spread like wildfire. 

“I will write to her immediately. What can I do about the others?” Harry wondered. “It must not be printed anywhere.”

Snape shook his head tiredly, and said, “You must be prepared to deal with the consequences of this expose, Potter. It cannot be stopped in entirety. We can only attempt to contain the flames. However, Skeeter is credible, as much as that amazes me. If she refutes it, nobody else can write of it convincingly. Now, I must go to the meeting. Write to Skeeter, and desist from rashness.”

Harry was not rash, not where this was concerned. He did not want anyone else to know. 

“Will you tell him now?” 

“I have to. My days of suspect allegiances are behind me. What cause do I help by throwing myself to his wrath?”

With a swirl of his coat, Snape stormed out. Harry supposed Dumbledore must have been really fond of Snape. The drama! As long as Snape did not do anything rash, Harry was fine. He would have liked more time before Voldemort heard the news, but he knew there was no time to be spared. He hoped that Rita listened to him. As he wrote the letter, an owl flew to him, bearing a scroll. 

It was from Slughorn, asking him for a meeting at Hog’s Head. Harry set it aside. First, he had to deal with Rita. He bit his lips. He had to speak with Ron. Ron was calm when planning strategies. He would come up with a plan. 

Voldemort walked in two hours later. Harry had finished writing a few letters. He had written to Flitwick, to Remus, to Ron, to Hermione, to Rita Skeeter, and to Slughorn. He needed to find owls to bear them to their destinations.

“I can see that you are attempting diplomacy, in your usual bull-headed, well-intentioned manner.” 

Harry fought off a scowl and asked evenly, “Is there something else I can do?”

“Why fear, Harry? If Britain disowns you for such vile acts, there are lands wondrous elsewhere.” 

Harry supposed Voldemort had conditioned himself to be not tied to a home, to a land. Voldemort had been unable to sever ties to whom he loved, and that had been the only reason why he had returned to this land. Harry was not the same. He had family and friends here. He truly did not care to be reviled in the media until the very thought of him made his friends wince in disgust. 

“I will try to speak with Rita,” Harry said. “Please don’t solve the issue your way.”

“You said once that I Obliviate what I cannot solve by murder or sex. Which specific method are you advising me to refrain from?”

Harry winced. He truly thought that those were Voldemort’s preferred methods to solve problems. Yet, he frowned, why did Voldemort look unaffected? Was he not worried by the expose? Had he already done something? 

“You don’t seem worried.”

“Well-spotted, my dear Harry.”

Harry exhaled deeply and asked, with patience he did not know he had, “Why?”

“Bella Black told the Inner Circle when Grindelwald was torturing me in Nurmengard. The rest of those who follow me may have heard of my unsavoury engagements with Muggle men over the past decades. There is nary a low I have sunken to that they are unaware of. So, then, having sex with Harry Potter, who is sealed to be mine by enchantment, is hardly likely to set them all aflutter. Indeed, the rest of Britain would react the same, if I may be as bold as to foretell. You are mine. I possess no virtues. Why would I not exploit you sexually? Not as shocking or outrageous, when put that way, don’t you see?”

“You aren’t sexually exploiting me,” Harry said testily. 

“Why then are you frightened?” Voldemort asked, swirling away from him to inspect Abraxas’s portrait again. “There is no shame in your love, or so you tell me ever so often.”

For God’s sake! Harry felt angry words at the tip of his tongue. His memories of that forsaken Christmas reined him in. Voldemort had to see what was at stake. Harry had friends and family that would disavow all relationships with him if they heard of his love. None of them would react to his secret as Dumbledore had. Dumbledore had not been pleased, but he had seen the utility of Harry’s relationship in bringing Grindelwald down, at least. 

Harry frowned again. Voldemort was waiting on him, somehow. He needed to think more carefully. There was something nontrivial under the surface, he knew, that he could not put his finger on. 

He glanced up at the man again. Oh, Harry’s tightly reined-in rage threatened to spill, upon seeing how pensively Voldemort traced his fingers down the gilded edge of the portrait frame. He took a deep breath. He could not solve everything that night, certainly. However, he was determined to put to rest at least one ghost.

“Survivor sex,” he said calmly, removing his clothes with an efficiency that had come of practise each night. 

Voldemort looked at him in bewilderment. 

“We survived today,” Harry clarified, turning towards the large sofa that Bellatrix was fond of reclining upon. He tried to sprawl upon it as he had seen her do, trying to pull off that same air of lust-inducing nonchalance. 

“I doubt it is wise to indulge under Lucius’s roof,” Voldemort said hesitantly, coming closer but not venturing to touch Harry. 

His next words were broken by a swallow when Harry lifted his right leg and hooked it up across the head of the sofa. He touched Harry then, delicately, at the kneecap, and drew his fingers down the line of Harry’s inner thigh. Harry, who had felt like a prime idiot trying to pull off a Renaissance painting, was reassured by the lust in his partner’s gaze. Voldemort hesitated again, and cast an impulsive glance back at the portrait. Like a child caught with his hand in a jar of candy, he withdrew his hand quickly and cleared his throat.

“Let me take us to a better venue.”

Harry responded by stroking his cock smoothly. He knew, in his mind, instinctively, what was at stake. It was among the hardest things he had done, and among the strangest. If someone had told him, two years ago, that he would sprawl himself as shamelessly as a woman in a teenager’s fantasy, asking to be taken, he would have considered them more hopeless at fortune-telling than Trelawney herself. 

“Fuck me.” He took a deep breath. “Here. Now. I won’t ask again.”

Voldemort nodded, keeping his eyes on the expanse of Harry’s skin. He did not disrobe, instead draping himself over Harry and kissing him deeply, in his characteristic manner, first slowly and then boldly. Harry clutched him close and wondered how Voldemort had managed to summon the will to obey Harry’s wish. The extraordinariness of the man took his breath away, so often, so painfully. He steeled himself and brought his arms to shove down Voldemort’s robes. They pooled at his waist.

“Harry-”

“Off with them.” 

Voldemort complied. When he took Harry, his face was so shadowed by grief and finality, and his mind clung tight over Harry’s surrendered one, and there were shades of resentment hiding in an ocean of devotion. Yet, he was gentle with Harry, pleasuring him as he liked best, taking care to modulate the force of his thrusting so as to not use Harry roughly. He had forgotten the spell they usually cast to make it easier, and Harry had forgotten too, but it seemed to be of little consequence right then. 

“What more would you have me do before him?” he asked Harry, voice shaking in emotion, once they had fallen to orgasm in each other’s arms. “Would you have me beg for your cock, kneeling?”

“That is not him. That is merely a portrait. He is dead,” Harry said gently, brushing Voldemort’s face with his fingers. He wished he had Dumbledore’s powers of eloquence, to convince, to persuade, to make his lover see what he saw. “You are here, and I love you dearly. He loved you dearly too. How could he not? He killed himself. Stop tormenting yourself for it.” 

The anguish and the rage on Voldemort’s features did not look human. Harry expected a violent tirade, and a repeat of that Christmas night, and was silently praying that he could find the strength in him to deal with that, but Voldemort shook his head in exhaustion, gathered their robes to him, and asked, “May I take us elsewhere now?”

Harry nodded assent. 

He was unsurprised to find them on the Isle of Man, in the roofless chapel of St. Michael’s. It was cold and rainy. Voldemort sunk to the ground, leaning his back against the wall, as he had once done when waiting to heal from the wounds he had sustained in the fray when the Aurors had found him in Derbyshire. 

Harry felt ill-prepared. He had no words to soothe, no words to explain more, no words to ask forgiveness. He sat down beside Voldemort and drew his knees to his chin. The roughness of the sex was starting to affect him then, after the adrenaline had died away. He suppressed a wince. Voldemort passed him his robe. That helped only mildly against the rain, but Harry was glad to have it nonetheless.

“I would ask you to let me cast a healing charm on you, if I were not worried that I would make a hash of it right now,” Voldemort said quietly. “Please do it yourself. It was remiss of me to forget the lubrication.”

“My healing charms are terrible,” Harry confessed. “I trust your magic.”

Voldemort sighed and reached for Harry’s wand. 

“You forgot yours, again?” Harry complained, handing it over. The charm worked. He exhaled in relief as the pain vanished. Harry had had no doubts regarding Voldemort’s ability to do that. 

“I have it,” Voldemort said distractedly. “I prefer yours to mine in times of emotional distress. It is steadier. Amelioration instead of aggravation.” 

“I didn’t know.”

Harry had not tried Voldemort’s wand before. He wondered if he would have a similar reaction. It was possible. As Ollivander was fond of saying, theirs were brother wands. 

“You seem to be carrying on well in your late mentor’s footsteps, if I may say so,” Voldemort said, throwing his head back against the wall, with a wretched laugh. “Using a man’s emotions against him, powerfully, effectively.”

Dumbledore knew how to dissect a man emotionally. He was also capable of being surgically precise about exposing weaknesses, and using them as necessary for a greater purpose. Harry sighed. Was that what he had done? Had it been only jealousy? He knew it was more. How could he explain? 

“I didn’t know how else to tell you that you are scaring me by how you let your past haunt you. You haven’t been tied to it in a very long time. Why would you choose to be tied to it now?”

“Says the man who is floundering in desperation to find a rational explanation that will please his friends about the expose that Rita has.”

“I have made up my mind on that,” Harry said quietly, looking at the rocks that overhung the sea. “I swore to you on this island that I was unashamed, that I was yours, that I wanted you to be mine. I found you here once bleeding after defending our secrecy. I killed Wormtail for what he had done to you. I feared for your life in Nurmengard when you lay dying in my arms, torn of magic and dignity. Let them print what they have. I won’t deny the truth.”

“What of your well-wishers?” Voldemort asked, his voice holding no emotion. 

Harry had placed the pieces together, in his normal manner, instinctively, too late. 

Voldemort did not want to be a dirty secret that Harry denied everyday, for all his posturing on how none of it truly mattered to him. He had suffered when Abraxas had chosen to keep it in the dark. Harry did not think Voldemort wanted their relationship to be public knowledge, or even revealed to anyone in particular at all. All he desired, Harry felt, was Harry’s assurance that he would not try to deny everything. 

Was that asking for too much, when he had given into Harry’s wishes in Malfoy Manor? Harry felt his gut clench as he remembered the grief and finality on Voldemort’s face at that moment. 

“It isn’t that I am not concerned about what other people will think,” he said truthfully. “It is only that it doesn’t matter as much, because you matter the most.”

“Charmed,” Voldemort muttered, shivering.

“Put your robes on,” Harry said briskly. He cast spells to shield them from the downpour, and spells to warm them. 

Voldemort caught his wrist then, just as he was about to conjure a magical fire, as Flitwick had once taught him, for light and more warmth. 

“Yes?” 

“Let me have the darkness and the rain awhile.”

Harry nodded and hastily rose to his feet. When he walked down the rocky path from the chapel to the roiling sea, he pretended that he did not hear the broken sobs which cut clear even over the rain; a mourning that Harry knew well, for he had broken so too when he had held Voldemort’s form in his arms in Nurmengard. It was good that it was raining, Harry decided, as he rubbed the tears off his cheeks fiercely. 

He perched himself upon one of the large rocks which looked over the sea. He forced himself to cast spells to warm him. It seemed unfair, somehow, to be comfortable when he knew Voldemort had chosen discomfort. Thinking of their lives, entwined, he cried again. Poor Sirius! Harry’s parents too. Was Dumbledore right? Was death only an adventure? Would he see them again? What would he say? How could he explain any of it? 

The sea calmed, the rain slowed to a drizzle, and pale streaks of dawn coloured the eastern skies. Harry saw dark shapes moving towards him. Owls. He straightened his spine and took a deep breath. He knew what news they brought.

They were from Ron and Hermione, from Neville, from Fred and George, from Remus, from Ginny, from Molly, from Hagrid, from Professor McGonagall, and from so many others who had loved Harry for a very long time. One of them had a copy of the Daily Prophet with moving images Harry did not look closer at. He carefully collected all the letters and sealed them waterproof with a charm. 

“I have no replies for you to carry,” he told the waiting, restless owls. “Go back safely.”

He walked away from them, picking his way down the muddy path, and up again, to the chapel. Voldemort had thrown on his robes at some point, and Harry was grateful for that. 

“Hello,” Harry whispered, standing there, feeling wretched, but determined too. 

Voldemort looked at the letters in Harry’s hands, and then looked up at him with exhausted, red-rimmed eyes. Harry sighed and knelt beside him. He looked so fragile to Harry, all carved of bone and skin, with little life or spark to him. Yet, somehow, Harry knew that he had never loved the man as much as he did right then. Fierce protectiveness rose in him, and his throat clenched at what it had all come down to.

He forgot the letters he held, and the fears he had dwelled upon all night about Sirius and his parents, somehow. Perhaps it was only denial. If denial gave him happiness, if it let him bring happiness to his lover, was it such a bad thing? 

“I apologise for letting you fend for yourself in such a place last night,” Voldemort said, collecting himself with effort. “You must be hungry.” 

Harry was not hungry. The Dursleys had tried to train him out of base needs such as hunger a long time ago, he supposed. 

“May I kiss you?” he asked, wanting to somehow gather his will and heart, to put it inside and share it with Voldemort. 

Voldemort smiled then, wanly, and asked, “When have I denied you?” 

That was true. Even when Harry had asked for the impossible last night, Voldemort had given him. So Harry pocketed the letters, and then he kissed the man, in that roofless chapel, in the light rain, and somehow they wound into each other’s arms, cold and shivering, under a bleak and cloudy dawn that still held plenty of promise to Harry.

—-

“I need some books on construction spells,” Harry said, as they sat drinking coffee on the meadow. Voldemort was facing away from the burnt remains of the house, but Harry was looking at it thoughtfully. 

Clara brought them pies from the village, shook her head sadly as she looked at the ruins, and went to the barns. It had taken Voldemort a great deal of French and charm to convince her that it was safe to be there. It had taken Harry all his sincerity to assure her that Voldemort was not lying. She had hugged him, and cast a worried glance at Voldemort, as if to reassure herself that they were both unharmed. That they had looked unsightly after the night they had had, covered by mud and sodden to the bone, did not help the cause, Harry was sure.

“You have willing labour,” Voldemort pointed out then, taking a careful bite of a slice of the rhubarb pie. He liked rhubarb. Clara must have bought that specifically with him in mind. Harry decided to thank her when she came by next. 

“I did not know that your magnificence extended to construction,” Harry said curiously. Voldemort did not seem materialistic enough to care about such things.

“I can learn,” Voldemort said. “It can’t be difficult, I am sure.”

“I want to do this,” Harry told him frankly. “Let me build us a home.” 

Voldemort looked at him in surprise. 

“Just set right the east wing, so that Clara can cook, so that we can sleep somewhere,” Harry said. “It is the least damaged. I will start working on the rest slowly.”

“Why do you insist to undertake that alone? Are you concerned we will disagree about your design?”

Disagreement was unusual for them, Harry realised suddenly. Voldemort preferred to let Harry set the tone of their interactions, dragging it back to balance when it went awry. Why was that? Harry suspected it was because Voldemort knew what he liked, and had the patience to let Harry explore and come to find out slowly what he liked. 

“I want to build you a home you won’t flee from, a home you own and love, a home that is ours,” Harry tried to explain. “You are more than capable of doing it all by yourself. Only, I wish to give it to you.” 

He was not sure that he had done a good job of explaining. Voldemort had fled from place to place, due to various reasons, all his life. Harry wanted to show him what home and belonging meant. It was something he had desired and craved desperately all his life. He remembered how he had hoped when Sirius had spoken of it. He wanted to build his home, now that he knew what it meant. 

“Home is a nebulous concept to me. If you desire to keep me as yours under a roof you build, I have no qualms,” Voldemort said, turning his attention to his coffee again, drawing an end to that discussion.

Harry supposed home had come to mean exactly that. Many months ago, he would have balked at a statement like that. Owning someone, keeping someone - didn’t all of that sound medieval? He had not associated those concepts with love. Now, though, he had come to find that love did involve at least a degree of ownership. Maybe it was only a particularly strong version of possessiveness, he consoled himself. Maybe this desire had been in him all along, and he had only been trying in vain to make it work with Cho and Ginny. They would have been terrified by such a declaration. It was for the best, Harry decided, that his lot in life was with Voldemort, who did not seem particularly fazed by his explanations. Voldemort was unfazed by lovers that obsessed over him. In fact, Harry was sure that he preferred his lovers on the obsessive side. He was, at least in Harry’s opinion, somewhat of an expert at crafting equilibrium out of dysfunctional, possessive, unhealthy relationships, if only through dubious means such as denial and oblivion.

“Have you ever obliviated me?” he asked, suddenly curious, and trying not to dread the answer. 

Voldemort said absently, focussing on carving another slice of the pie, “No. Why would I? We are tied by blood and more. Harming your mind could harm mine.”

Harry wondered if this was what insurance meant, in the wizarding world. 

More owls crashed against Voldemort’s well-crafted barriers around the land, and Harry winced as they dropped flaming Howlers on the invisible wards. He could not hear the contents, but his imagination ran amok as he thought of what the shouts must be about. It was odd, he thought, that he was hiding from the world. He had accused Voldemort of that so many times. 

“I am off to Hogwarts.”

“Keep yourself safe. You are no longer as beloved as you were,” Voldemort reminded him. “The press will be hunting you. You have new enemies out to kill you.”

Harry wondered why Voldemort did not forbid him to go. Even when there had been the risk of Dumbledore destroying the horcrux in him, Voldemort had not tried to keep Harry with him. Why? It must be that notion of equality Voldemort fought to maintain between them. Harry frowned. Voldemort had not drawn a line of separation between his and Harry’s. Harry shivered in pleasure as he remembered how Voldemort had easily and unselfconsciously spoken of the kitchen as theirs, so long ago. He also remembered how Voldemort had spoken of shared activities with Abraxas that he had taken pleasure in.

“Let us rebuild together,” Harry said then. “You must have some ideas about what you would like in a home.”

Voldemort’s eyes held a touch of surprise, and then approbation. Oh, well, Harry thought to himself wryly, he would unwind this puzzle one day at a time. He would get there, eventually.

“I will have all of your secrets one day,” Harry said softly. “I will know all of you then.”

Voldemort raised his cup of coffee in toast to Harry’s words. Sardonic, Harry could tell. He rolled his eyes and made his way to the house, to see if there were any of his clothes that had survived the fire. 

He would wear his Gryffindor colours. Perhaps it would help to put to rest rumours of his conversion to the evil ways of his master. He doubted it, but trying was what he did best. He tried stubbornly until he managed to get what he wanted. Snape might call it dumb luck. Harry liked to think it was a good dose of unhealthy perseverance. 

——

“Bedecked to roar and charge into folly like the brave epitome of your house?” Snape asked. 

He did not bother wasting not a second glance at Harry, turning his attention back to the sheaf of parchment he was laboriously poring over. The way he squinted at them made Harry think of Petunia, who refused to admit that her eyesight had worsened with age and that she required reading glasses. 

“I don’t think black would help my case much, at this point,” Harry said. 

“That ship has sailed, Potter.”

“What are you doing?” 

“Curating the list of children who will receive their letters from the school this year.”

“You are reopening the school?” Harry asked, shocked. He walked across to Snape and pulled himself a chair. Oh, there was tea too. Harry had not had tea in ages! After the events of the past two days, he was dying for a cuppa. Harry’s hand hovered over the pot for a second before he pulled back, hesitating. Snape was touchy about a great deal.

“Do make yourself at home, and spare no thought to the vassal toiling.”

Harry poured himself tea, and refilled Snape’s cup too while he was at it.

“You are reopening the school?” he asked again, wondering why he was so unsettled at the thought. 

He had nothing left at Hogwarts. Automatically, his head came up to look at Dumbledore’s portrait, and seeing the familiar blue eyes made him turn his head away in grief. How could Snape stand this everyday?

“I must,” Snape said laconically. “I am only here to teach. I need young and malleable idiots to pour my knowledge into. Therefore, it is logical to reopen the school and usher in the sheep.”

Somehow Harry had never thought that teaching was Snape’s greatest passion in life. 

“Didn’t he have anything to say about it?” Harry asked, still trying to piece together this latest manifestation of troubling news.

“The Dark Lord? Word goes that you have thoroughly ensnared him in your boudoir, as Nimue bewitched Merlin, and he has little time to spare for matters as mundane as the education of our future.”

A boudoir was a bedroom, wasn’t it? 

“We don’t have a boudoir anymore,” Harry informed Snape. “Moody burned the house down.”

“The Dark Lord mentioned minor property damage during the meeting,” Snape said, eyes flicking up to Harry carefully, assessing. 

That sounded like how Voldemort would speak about it, Harry thought. Voldemort liked his freedom to hibernate, and he would try to keep his meddling Inner Circle and their advice well out of his plans to remain suspended in his own carefully constructed alternate reality, away from London and its politics, away from the purpose he had lost interest in, away from facing the world that threw memories of his lover at him from every direction. 

“I presume you have avoided glancing at the headlines.”

“I haven’t read any of the letters or the newspapers yet,” Harry admitted. Snape knew him well. “I am already frightened. It won’t help to read about what my friends think of me now.”

“It utterly baffles me how you did not give a thought to how your friends would take the tidings before you embarked on the venture.”

“You did always complain that I leap before I think,” Harry pointed out, frustrated. 

He had worried about the repercussions often enough. He simply had not found a way to save everything that mattered. So it had been easier to be short-sighted, to live in the present, to live away from the world that held his friends, to only consider the war and Voldemort, and what Dumbledore had wanted from Harry.

“Potter, as much as it would give me delight to exult in your fall, it behooves me to see you extricated from this situation, if only because you have made yourself the target of many righteous folk who would see you dead for what you have done.”

Oh, that old saving Harry business. He had hoped that Snape had quit that obsession, and had finally moved on. It seemed to still linger. 

“I am fine. I really can take care of myself,” he said calmly. He did not feel calm. “Now I must go down and meet Slughorn. He wanted to see me.”

———

Crystallised pineapple was not Harry’s favourite snack, but he was voracious and it was the only snack on offer. 

“Only a moment, my boy!” Horace said, waddling back into his rooms. 

Harry shrugged and continued devouring the pineapple. Hermione would have complained about Ron’s influence if she had seen it. He sighed, as he promptly lost his appetite. He wanted to read her letter, but he was frightened. 

Horace emerged from his rooms, holding aloft a bottle of what looked to be mead. 

“From Albus,” he explained. “He had wanted to open it once the war was over.”

He sat down on his chair and mopped his brow, as if the small walk had expended arduous effort. Harry looked at the bottle of mead, wondering how close Horace and Dumbledore had been. They must have taught at Hogwarts for ages together. They must have been in the same staff room, discussing how Tom Riddle, Minerva McGonagall and Hagrid were faring in their subjects. 

As if picking up on his chain of thought, Horace said quietly, “We were colleagues, Harry. I did not agree with many of his decisions. He vehemently disagreed with most of mine. However, we had a friendship spanning nearly half a century.” 

Dumbledore had been alone, though. Harry had seen that during his time at Hogwarts. Even when he had so many allies in the teachers and the Order, Dumbledore had still been alone. 

“I did not understand him well at all, mind you,” Horace continued, pouring them both the mead. “I knew him well enough at least to understand what he saw in you. He saw a friend, I daresay; he saw in you a friend in whose presence he did dare to unburden himself, to be less than what he needed to be everyday for a very long time alone.”

Dumbledore had liked Moody. Dumbledore had also liked Amelia Bones. Harry looked at the drink set before him and swallowed. He had liked Amelia too. He had respected Moody. He had watched them die. Well, Harry had also watched Dumbledore die. He had seen how fondly Dumbledore had looked at him when Harry had called him by his name. He had seen the loneliness lift for a scant moment. 

Was he a terrible friend? Ron and Hermione, and all his other friends, must certainly think so. He grabbed the goblet and drank down the alcohol. It burned his throat. Potent. 

“I don’t think I was any good at being a friend,” Harry confessed to the goblet, setting it down before it fell from the grasp of his shaking hands.

“Oh, neither was he,” Horace said kindly. “He was constantly running amok in my head, given the chance, when he spotted a weakness. A single-minded man, in his pursuit to bring Tom to justice. However, for all that he did for the greater good, he still strove to be the best friend he could be.” 

Harry considered Snape. Snape, he was sure, had considered Dumbledore a friend. That had been a weird relationship and Snape had been used badly, but Dumbledore had also liked him a great deal. 

“What are you trying to explain?” he asked Horace. 

“Only that some wizards are burdened by fate, Harry Potter. Then it is petty to expect those marked few to be capable of be exactly the same normals as the rest of us. I accepted Albus as he was. Your friends will do that too, one day, even if you cannot obtain their immediate acceptance or forgiveness.”

Many of Dumbledore’s closest allies had accepted him as he was, hadn’t they? Snape had not voiced a recrimination yet about his treatment at Dumbledore’s hands. Neither had Remus. Harry had never complained either, though he had often felt oppressed, before the war had begun, by how easily Dumbledore crafted plans involving him. Then he had seen Dumbledore so wretched at his bedside, when he had been brought back from that trafficking den. Dumbledore had loved him dearly. 

Harry loved Ron and Hermione. He hoped that they would one day find it in themselves to forgive him, even if it took a very long time. Remus too. And Hagrid. It seemed like a fairytale ending, and Petunia would scoff at the fantasy, but he prayed for it nonetheless. 

“Did Abraxas have close friends?” he asked, curious. “Did they try to talk him out of it?”

“He was a popular student. By all accounts, he grew up to be a man who was kind to his friends.”

Horace poured himself more mead and hiccuped. Harry felt light-headed. He wondered if he should stop drinking. He did not have too much experience with alcohol, unless Fred’s spiked punch counted. 

“While he had many friends, he was cocooned in his world, nonetheless. Who can blame him for it? He spent most of his life plotting and protecting Tom’s interests. He was held in high regard. There was just one time when he doubted the wisdom of his involvement. It was when-”

Horace clutched his throat then, choking, and blood came up. Harry rose to his feet, frightened, and rushed across to support the man. Horace’s flailing sent the bottle and his goblet crashing to the floor. His hands came up, flapping, in a vain attempt to stem the flow of blood. Realization rose dire to his face then, stark even over the pain, and he garbled a name.

“You were not a foolish man, even though you had become a careless one,” said a voice Harry knew well. “Goodbye.” 

Harry turned away from death to face Flitwick, who stood there, quiet and unassuming as always, just as he had done when teaching Harry. He flinched as he heard the gurgling sounds from the dying man, but he could not bring himself to look. He had not seen death as macabre as that before. Flitwick looked at him sadly, as if it had all been Harry’s fault. There was nowhere to run to. He was trapped, between Horace’s body, the table, and Flitwick stood between him and the doorway. 

“You told Moody,” Harry said, as realisation dawned. “You alerted the reporters.”

“He killed many of my relatives during the first war, Harry Potter.”

“You didn’t tell anyone before,” Harry said quietly, trying to fit it all together, and failing. “You could have.” 

His heart was thudding in his chest madly, and he felt something cloaking his mind with surgical precision. Flitwick had taken no chances. 

“He was necessary to defeat Grindelwald. Albus saw it. I saw it. His utility is over. Now, vengeance can proceed.” 

“Killing me won’t harm him,” Harry said carefully, still in vain trying to understand.

“You are the last horcrux. Even if you were not, you are his lover. Abraxas Malfoy’s death defeated him the last time. It is only a simple rule of causality to assume the same consequence now. Why do you think Albus bided his time? Why do you think he let matters proceed? He knew, one way or another, you would be the downfall that destiny had promised.”

Harry’s clothes hung to his armpits as he sweated profusely, panicking and frightened. He tried to break through the cloak on his mind, to reach that corner where the bond dwelt. 

“You are untrained, Harry,” Flitwick told him solemnly. “You were one of my best students in Charms, but there are those of the mind that you have not learned yet. You cannot break the charm that binds your mind. It must be unusual for you, to deal with adversity without someone running to your rescue.”

“He will sense it,” Harry said confidently, though he was not confident at all. Flitwick was highly intelligent. He must have thought of all possibilities before striking. 

“It does not matter,” Flitwick said. “The wards on the school passed from Albus to me. He will be too late. I wish it had not come to this, Harry. I am fond of you.” 

He looked genuinely sad. 

Harry raised his wand to defend, for what else could he do? He did not want to die a martyr, though Flitwick was seeking vengeance for a just cause, for grievous atrocities committed by his lover. Harry’s parents had died too. Many had. Vengeance was justified. Harry did not want to be the instrument, though, anymore. 

He had only wanted to kill four times in his life; the first was Bellatrix when she had killed Sirius, the second was Voldemort when he had read the news of Bellatrix’s atrocities, the third was Wormtail, and the fourth was Grindelwald when Harry had faced him mockingly speaking of what he had made Voldemort endure in that castle. 

He was tired. He loved. He had to protect the living man he loved, instead of fighting for his dead family. He needed to live.

“You cannot win here, Harry,” Flitwick said sadly, with surety, and raised his wand. 

Grindelwald’s spells had been calculated and powerful. Harry had also fought against Bellatrix Lestrange, and her peculiar brand of madness in spell-casting. Flitwick was cautious and did not cast the flashy spells that were favoured by many of the duellists Harry had watched. He stuck to charms, strongly defending himself, and then crafting them to pry open the weaknesses in Harry’s shields.

“You cast very strong shields,” Flitwick said, casting steady beams of purple light to investigate the depth and reach of Harry’s defences. 

Voldemort had said the same. Harry’s shields had held awhile even against the Death stick. He gulped and focussed. Hermione had complimented him and envied him his command over his combat skills. Back then, they had all thought that attacking was the best way to stay alive. They had been wrong. Harry knew, after watching Grindelwald and Dumbledore, after watching Voldemort, that he needed to defend first. The purple beams Flitwick had cast bore heavy upon Harry’s magic, bending his shields inward until he felt them turning brittle and then breaking into defenselessness. 

Dumbledore had once said that Flitwick had been a duelling champion in his youth, Harry remembered, as he cast a multitude of spells, one after another, hopelessly, trying to keep Flitwick from pressing his advantage. There was nowhere to run to, stuck as he was between a corpse and his opponent. 

There was banging on the door then, wild and urgent. 

“Severus did never know to stop prying into your affairs,” Flitwick said, casting again, spells of red this time, and they burned Harry’s skin, causing him to yelp and drop his wand. 

Harry knew that Snape would first try to barge in, to attempt to save him. Snape was an excellent duellist, but Flitwick had the upper hand. He had prepared for all possibilities, for all interventions. Harry yelled his first Sectumsempra over the sound of Snape’s shouting, over the sound of Flitwick raising the ground as a solid wall between them to absorb the curse. The wall gave away a second later, and brilliant violet flashed through, blinding Harry instantly. Harry shouted again, this time a spell that had saved him, that Bellatrix had mocked him for, a spell to disarm. 

“Oh, Harry, I carry not a brother wand,” Flitwick said chidingly, as if he were yet a teacher in a Charms classroom, as if he had not burned and blinded Harry, as if he was not calmly orchestrating death and vengeance. 

Harry knew he could not outthink Flitwick. He did not have the professor’s ability to foresee all combinations of spells and tactics. He held back a gasp of shock as he realised what was the only sliver of chance. Flitwick cast again, this time a spell to bind him, and as Harry fought the ties meshing around his limbs and torso, he shouted a spell that Snape had tried in vain to teach him to defend against. This time, though, he focused only on the madness inside him, the fear and the grief, the dark pit of emotion that he had seen Bellatrix and Sirius leverage, and then he was in Flitwick’s thoughts, in a well-constructed and carefully sequenced landscape, seeing and knowing, for a few moments, before he was pushed out in a blind rush of panic. 

“Mind magic?” Flitwick laughed, but Harry saw through the attempt to the fear and the shock underneath. 

Harry pushed again, using power instead of knowledge, for that was all he possessed, and he was in a mind that was stunned and frightened, clamouring to make sense of it all quickly, clamouring to end Harry, but Harry surged through madly, with all the grace of a brute, ripping through the delicate beauty he traversed. 

“Potter! Potter!” 

It was Snape, aghast, standing over him. The door had been broken down. There stood Hagrid and Minerva McGonagall too, both frightened. 

Oh, Harry was on his knees, and before him was Flitwick, eyes wide open, with little lucidity to them. 

“Dear heavens, Potter!” Snape whispered, reaching down and tugging him up. 

Snape’s robes were trailing in blood. Harry’s shoes too. Slughorn had bled a lot, hadn’t he? 

Snape slapped him then, twice, on each cheek, and Harry frowned. If anything, Snape looked more worried on seeing Harry’s lack of reaction. He gripped Harry by the arms and shook him roughly. 

“It is all right,” Professor McGonagall said then, though her voice was small and scared. “Come here, Harry.” 

—-

They bundled him in a thick blanket and placed him on one of Dumbledore’s squishy chairs, in the office that Harry associated with a wise, old man with twinkling, blue eyes. Snape fussed about, checking his pupils and ordering him to drink his tea. Professor McGonagall was kinder, patting him once or twice on the shoulder, though she looked at him as if he was a broken thing. Hagrid had said something in his rough, comforting voice and had left, looking conflicted. 

“I should tell Remus,” Professor McGonagall said then. “Arthur, too.” 

“They cannot do anything, Minerva,” Snape said quietly. “Potter is the Dark Lord’s, by magic.”

“We cannot let this continue!” she said sharply. “He is only a boy, Severus! I am ashamed that we won a war because Harry pawned himself to his parents’ murderer.”

“That is what he had to do to win us the war,” Snape replied. 

“I should go home,” Harry said, wondering why he was clenching the cup so tightly. He was not used to so many people anymore. He had become comfortable with solitude and quietness, with only Voldemort for company. 

The mead had been Dumbledore’s final gift to Slughorn, hadn’t it? How had Flitwick poisoned it? Why hadn’t it affected Harry? He remembered Hermione once speaking about certain potions activated by a particular blood type. Was that chemistry or was that potions? He could not remember.

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and moved closer to Harry, as if to protect him. Harry looked up. Voldemort stood in the doorway, and Harry saw the fear on his features, badly concealed.

“I am fine,” Harry said firmly, hoping that he could leave, that they could all just let him be. 

“You tore his mind into pieces,” Snape pointed out, ever unhelpful to Harry’s causes. “That destruction spilled over to you too, uncontrolled as it was. You cannot be fine.” 

“You must go to St. Mungo’s,” Professor McGonagall chimed in, keeping her eyes squarely on Harry, doing her best to ignore Voldemort. “Spells meddling with the mind are not to be trifled with.” 

Harry thought of Bellatrix and what she had said about meddling with the mind. He thought of Voldemort and Dumbledore, and of the ruins of Eloise’s mind. He thought of Flitwick’s open, unseeing gaze. He felt curiously empty, and detached, as if he were watching the entire scene from above.

Voldemort stepped into the room and looked at Snape pointedly. Snape cast Harry one last, worried look before taking Professor McGonagall by the arm and chivvying her out. He shut the door behind them. 

Now it was just Harry and Voldemort. This was what Trelawney had promised. This was fate. Harry smiled at him.

Voldemort’s composure cracked and he came to kneel by Harry, lifting a hand to cup Harry’s face, and he whispered, “Your professor makes a strong case.” 

“I don’t want to go to St. Mungo’s. Can’t you Obliviate me?”

“Would you rather slit your wrists in a bathtub?” Voldemort asked, eyes dark and full of fear. “Meddling with the mind is foolish, Harry. It leaves you a wasteland, contemplating choices you would not entertain otherwise.” 

“Heal me, then,” Harry told him. “I feel as if I am Alice and you are the Cat. You are confusing, but you know everything. I only wish I understood you.” 

“Did you fall down the hole, bump your head, and bruise your soul?” Voldemort asked, and Harry found he could not put a name to the emotion held in his lover’s gaze then. 

“I trust you,” Harry said, tired, only wanting to forget the smell of mead and blood, only wanting to forget Flitwick’s screams as Harry had torn his mind. 

Voldemort shook his head and reached up to press a gentle kiss to Harry’s lips. Then he reached for Harry’s wand. Harry closed his eyes and relaxed. 

When he opened them again, he was in Dumbledore’s office, and the portraits watched him solemnly, and Voldemort knelt before him, with his head in Harry’s lap, his left hand clenched tight around Harry’s wand, and his right hand wound into the front of Harry’s robes, over his chest. Harry brought his hands to gently stroke the planes of Voldemort’s upper back. That elicited a quiet, sad murmur of his name. 

“Take me home,” Harry asked him. 

“You paid the whole, and yet I am not free.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! We are nearly done :) 
> 
> * You paid the whole, and yet I am not free (Shakespeare) Sonnets.  
> * Alice and the Cat (Lewis Caroll) Alice in Wonderland


	38. Cupid has his own camp

“You should eat more.” 

“Isn’t that my line?” Harry complained half-heartedly, running his spoon in circles through the bowl of soup. 

It was rabbit. He marvelled that Voldemort had put aside his usual laziness to venture outside and hunt game. 

“Your kestrel was happy to see me,” Voldemort said. “Quite desperate for company and purpose.”

“Stop trying to make me feel guilty. I will go down tomorrow.” 

“Harry, these are my transparent attempts at manipulation. You will not like my true methods, I daresay.”

Harry put down his spoon and met Voldemort’s gaze defiantly. 

This had been coming, he knew. This had been stirring since they had returned from Hogwarts. It had been two weeks, Harry realised. Two weeks of Voldemort attempting to coddle Harry, two weeks of Harry wandering aimlessly through the burned down mansion, reliving the horror of what he had done to Flitwick, of crying himself to sleep at nights on the grand-chaise Voldemort had repaired, avoiding their bed, avoiding interactions with both Voldemort and the house-keeper. 

“I am attending Horace’s funeral tomorrow,” Voldemort informed him. 

Voldemort was planning to set aside his long hibernation at Rheims to attend the funeral. Everyone would be there, wouldn’t they? All the factions, and all of the Ministry. Harry blanched as he thought of Ron and Hermione. He could not face them. He needed to stop thinking about all of that. He needed a cruel and fulfilling distraction. He was spoiling for a fight, to burn out his rage and sadness. 

“I didn’t know you liked him.” 

“He was a strong influence in the early period of my life,” Voldemort said, rising from the table and moving to the fireplace. “I see what you are attempting, Harry. I suggest that you go and hunt foxes. There are plenty in the woods.”

“I don’t want to kill,” Harry said coldly, and the glass on the table shattered. Was he meant to destroy everything he touched? “Between us, we have broken and killed enough.” 

Voldemort looked at a loss and occupied himself with cleaning the debris. 

“I have not the right equipment, but I daresay I can brew you a calming potion, or Dreamless sleep, if you desire.” 

“Oblivion, murder, sex,” Harry muttered, rubbing his eyes in tiredness. “No wonder why you are stuck with no purpose when those options are not available to you.” 

Anger flared in Voldemort’s eyes, but he kept a tight rein on his temper, no doubt determined to not give Harry what he craved, no doubt determined to avoid a fight. 

“Come with me,” Voldemort said crisply, brooking no disobedience or argument. “Now.” 

Harry did not particularly desire to go with him. He was tired of the past two weeks however. He shrugged and rose to his feet. He expected the man to take him to the Isle of Mann, to conjure some dummies that Harry could take out his frustrations on. So he found himself curious as Voldemort walked down the meadows, passed the Apparation point he favoured, and further into the woods. They walked deeper and deeper into the woods, and only foxes kept them company. Harry had taken his wand, and was glad for it. 

They passed the periphery of Voldemort’s strongest wards, and Harry’s senses tingled with alertness. It reminded him of his foray into the Forbidden Forest, in his first year, and of an unicorn murdered. He shuddered. These woods were not magical, he knew, and only had foxes hunting rabbits in that ancient rhythm of the food pyramid. 

Harry’s apathy was starting to wane, washed away gently by the cool night breeze and the sounds of the forest. He looked at Voldemort more closely and he worried so when he saw the cuts and marks on Voldemort’s soles, caused by the twigs and the stones. Normally, Voldemort remembered to cast his protective charms. He had to find the man shoes that worked to stabilise the magic of his body. They entered a clearing, and there was a cauldron there, propped over stones, and Harry’s skin prickled with the awareness of Voldemort’s magic cloaking secrets. 

“We will be here awhile,” Voldemort told him. 

Harry nodded and sat down, cupping his chin, with his hands on his legs. He was curious to see what Voldemort had planned. Sex? This did not seem like an ideal location for sex. 

Voldemort waved his hand and conjured a fire under the cauldron. Then he removed the cloaking spells and a rickety cupboard appeared. He rummaged about, extracting jars and glass instruments, and Harry thought he looked the part of a mad scientist. He wanted to go closer, but Voldemort waved him away, muttering something about potential reactions. So there was nothing left to do but throw his warming charms over them both, and even that reminded him of Flitwick. 

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew was Voldemort tapping him awake. 

“Open your mouth.”

Harry blinked, and obeyed. Voldemort placed something underneath his tongue and sat down beside him. 

“Lysergic acid reacts with diethylamine to make something powerful that even the Mirror of Erised cannot compete with,” Voldemort explained. 

“Drugs?” Harry asked, suddenly catching on. “Sex, murder and oblivion are not options. So you resorted to drugs?”

He resisted the urge to pinch his nose. Clearly, Voldemort had the best of intentions, at least where Harry was involved. It was only that he managed to go about his intentions in an unconventional manner. This was the lie that Harry would have to convince himself of. 

“It will all come together in thirty minutes,” Voldemort promised. He looked mightily pleased with himself. 

“Did you take it too?” Harry asked, suddenly frightened, thinking about what Petunia had said about drugs and drug addicts, thinking about Rohypnol and what Snape’s book had said about the adverse effects.

“Would you like me to?” Voldemort replied solicitously. 

Harry pinched himself. Voldemort tilted his head in question. Harry nodded. If they were going to get out of their heads, it might as well as be together. He was frightened that he would see Voldemort’s darker thoughts, his joy in murder. He was, however, sure that he did not wish to be alone in whatever psychedelia this would take him through.

Voldemort brought a tiny slip of a square of white and Harry watched fascinated as it glowed bright in the darkness. It looked so innocent. He thought of Petunia again. Her spic-and-span kitchen, and her neat, orderly garden, all seemed a far cry from this cold clearing where he sat huddled with Voldemort partaking of drugs.

“We were in Wonderland already,” he pointed out tiredly. “I can barely cope with that. There was no need to add drugs to the mix.” 

“You have suburban morals,” Voldemort chastised him. There was the tremor of excitement in his voice. Clearly, he was looking forward to the effects. 

“I ought to be worried that you can cook up drugs as easily as this,” Harry muttered. 

Only, he ought to be worried about more significant issues, but he had chosen denial for all of those. 

“Look at it this way. You don’t have to trawl the alleys of London, bargaining with shady dealers, trying to evade the bobbies and the righteous, and then wonder if your desired drug of choice is pure and safe to consume. You have me to craft you what you need, and when you need it, as long as it is not addictive.” 

Harry blinked. That did not make sense. Harry had not needed any drug in the past. He was unlikely to, in the future. He was about to say that, but he was more concerned about the halo around Voldemort’s head. He said as much.

“A halo?” Voldemort asked, amused. 

“A black and ugly one,” Harry told him, wiping the smile right off his face. 

That served him right. The halo mutated into a red star. Who had told Harry once that Mars was a harbinger of wars and violence? Harry did not like it. So he bent over to kiss Voldemort and pulled back. There, the red star had mutated into a green circle, and it was the green of Harry’s eyes, and the green of the killing curse. Voldemort’s skin was as milk under his fingertips, and Harry pressed his lips to the warm body. 

“You have grown into a strong man,” Voldemort was saying, pulling Harry over him, spreading his arms akimbo, inviting lust and possession, a statue that only Michaelangelo could have carved from marble. The halo spread, in brilliant green, enveloping them. Everything else surrounding them paled away in its incandescence. 

Roots of the trees rose high through the ground, growing and winding up Voldemort’s body, and Harry nearly wept at the beauty of the picture his lover made, startling white against the dark brown earth. 

“Can I ride you? Can I suck you? Can I take you?” Harry asked, words leaving his mouth so swift and sure. 

Voldemort made a keening sound, and his eyes were dark pools of want. Harry impaled himself on his lover’s cock, and arched his body exultant as he took pleasure. Oh, his cares were washed away, by the sensation of Voldemort’s body inside his, by the Latin incoherent spilling incessantly from Voldemort’s lips. Harry reached down to drag his nails across Voldemort’s chest. He was ungentle and red rose to the surface. It dampened Voldemort’s ardor, just as Harry had expected it to do. He threw his head back and took his pleasure, riding to his climax, shouting his jubilation to the wilds around them. 

“I should leave you like this,” Harry said, leaning down to press a kiss to the cold lips of his lover. “When I am recovered, I can come back and take my pleasure again. Have you read the story of the princess in the tower? I should keep you here like that, so that you won’t hurt others, so that I can have you all to myself.” 

The roots of the trees retreated into the ground, and Voldemort turned them over. Harry winced as his back hit the rough ground. 

“I could keep you like this, perhaps,” Voldemort whispered, kissing him. The contact between them ignited Harry and in their bond unfurled passion that he had never experienced before. “I could keep you here. I can then deal with the world as I see fit, without worrying about offending you.” 

“You won’t keep me here.”

The surety in his voice astounded Harry. Why had he said that? He knew it was the truth. He knew Voldemort would not keep him captive, with the same certainty that he knew that the sun rose in the east.

“I won’t,” Voldemort said. “It would doubtlessly be healthier for you to stay here. Each foray of yours into the world outside leads to havoc in your mind. Any more, and you will be as sane as I am.”

“You are saner than you know,” Harry said truthfully. 

Voldemort had lifted Harry legs up to his shoulders and when he surged in, Harry felt filled. The shadows of the trees and the dancing flames under the cauldron seemed to creep in over him, haunting and mocking what they had become. 

The green of Harry’s eyes was reflected in Voldemort’s flared gaze and Harry wondered if the reverse held true. His mind soared high and he was in Godric’s Hollow; he was both a frightened toddler and a broken spirit, amidst corpses. The smell of magic old and green still lingered and Harry was weeping. Voldemort crashed into his mind then, uncoordinated and determined, pulling them away to that house in Derbyshire where they had first built their accord, and look how happy Harry had been when presented with his first cup of coffee. 

Shadows became spirits, and spirits became ghosts. Lily was sad. James was angry. Sirius looked wretched, and there was understanding in his eyes. Then came forward diminutive figures Harry was familiar with. There was Wormtail, with his skin flayed bloody. There was Flitwick with his eyes betraying the broken mind. 

Voldemort touched his cock then, grip sure and knowing, and Harry threw his head back in passion, forgetting the dead and the damned. All he knew was the contact between their bodies, in him, on him, around him. His lips knew only a name that few dared to speak aloud. His fingers knew only skin that was scarred and made of magic.

They fell together, and it had become the norm that Harry was not surprised anymore. As Voldemort buried his head in the crook of Harry’s neck, as was his habit, Harry clung to him tight and closed his eyes. 

Dumbledore was calling to him, from a faraway place, but Harry did not heed it, choosing to stay closed in his mind, enveloped by Voldemort’s thoughts of pleasure and satiation. 

“Did it open your third eye?” Voldemort whispered, reaching up to stroke Harry’s hair. 

If that was the third eye, Harry preferred it closed. His thoughts must have been evident on his features, because Voldemort smiled and shook his head. 

“Denial is a powerful tool, Harry, but acceptance can be as powerful, as you taught me only a few days ago.” 

Harry decided to make the utmost of the pleasured haze his mind dwelt in right then, and started their dance of pleasure once again. Voldemort was slower than usual, floating on the drug and the lingering after effects of their first round, so Harry thoroughly enjoyed the lack of competitiveness. 

“Unfair,” Voldemort murmured, yielding to Harry’s touches and shuddering. “Using your youth against me.”

“Will you still complain when I spread you open and stuff you with tongue and fingers and cock?” 

As it turned out, Voldemort did not complain afterwards. Harry could not make head or tail of his fervent Latin.

“I want to mark you,” Harry declared, as Voldemort traced the runes on his body greedily, and he wondered where that desire had sprung from. “Just as you marked me before so many people.” Voldemort looked at him curiously, trying to comprehend while swallowed by the waves of lust that Harry drove him into. Harry continued, undeterred, “I like sex. I like it when you are rough with me. I wish you did that more.”

“Enough with your fingers,” Voldemort ordered. “Give me your cock and I will indulge you with hours of rough sex in the days to come.” 

Sometimes, Voldemort could be extremely practical, Harry thought, laughing, and then replacing fingers with cock. Oh, Voldemort liked that very much indeed. This time, Harry tried to rein himself in, to give his lover the long and decadent rhythm that Voldemort liked, but he did not succeed. The body beneath him was too tight and warm, greedy and inviting, passionate and conquering, winning over Harry’s attempts to moderate, sending him crashing into its waiting embrace. Harry sighed and began stroking gentle patterns over Voldemort’s arms and neck. He was still restless. 

“Hush, quiet down. I need to rein in my thoughts. We shouldn’t mix our minds when under this influence.” 

So Harry let him be, and they lay together until coherence arrived with the dawn. 

“Your blood gave me form, and you have my soul in your keeping. Will a mark grant you more possession over me than you already have? I was willing to compromise life and principles to an extreme degree when your safety was at stake. All said and done, why would I deny you a mark, if that is what you desire?”

Harry did not want to explain the connotation of branding, slavery and cattle. Voldemort had somehow managed to arrive at a positive association for the mark, tying it to the concepts of love and possession, both of which were usually mixed in his understanding of the world. 

“I took your mark willingly before everyone I cared about, kneeling,” Harry said carefully.

It did not bother him anymore. It had stopped bothering him once Hermione had discovered the holly leaves, and once he had then found the ivy entwined. It was not a mark of ownership. It was only a mark of mutual possession. 

“You wish me to kneel? I don’t associate kneeling to you as a degradation,” Voldemort said easily. “I do it ever so often to suck your cock and that gives me true pleasure. You wish me to kneel before everyone I care about? Harry, they are all dead, with the exception of you.”

It was his old adamant stand about not mixing power and sex, and about not mixing power and love. Harry wondered if practicing that required a degree of emotional detachment that normal people could not come to easily. Imbalances, and one partner having more power over the other, arose naturally in relationships, from what he had seen. 

“I have to go to the funeral,” Voldemort said, trying to sit up valiantly, and in vain. His body was a mottled patchwork of scrapes and bites, of nail marks and mud. The drug still lingered in his eyes. Harry was no better off. 

“Does a sobering potion work?” 

“I am afraid not,” Voldemort said lightly. “The Cruciatus does.”

“I think I will just sleep it off.”

——

Harry made it to the castle late. He had lingered over toast and coffee for a long while. He had watched Voldemort take a quick bath, and then get hastily dressed in robes that Harry had had made for him. There was still the pall of the drug on Voldemort’s features, but Harry supposed nobody would notice. Nobody would dare look closely anyway. 

Harry took his bath and then dressed in his Gryffindor robes. Then he went to the Forbidden Forest, to his favoured apparition point, and then walked down to the meadow where Dumbledore’s tomb was. He saw a large gathering, and there was a man on a raised dais droning on about Horace’s long and rewarding life. 

He could not see Voldemort anywhere. He hesitated at the edge of the forest, and then decided to move to the Headmaster’s office. He could see the funeral well enough from there. 

There was a conversation going on. Harry raised his eyebrows in worry as he heard Dumbledore’s voice, and then Voldemort’s. They seemed mellow enough. Harry steeled himself and opened the door. 

Voldemort was standing by the window, hands crossed behind him, looking at the funeral. Dumbledore’s portrait slid back to sleep easily. Harry cast that one final glance before moving to join Voldemort at the window. 

“You decided to come to the funeral, after all.” 

“I decided to join you,” Harry corrected him. 

It was true. He could not have gone and stood there with the rest of them, to listen to elegies that held little meaning, not when he had watched the man being murdered. They had partaken of the same mead, and Harry had been simply considered more valuable. He had always been considered valuable. He looked at Dumbledore’s portrait uncertainly. His value, then and now, was only in relation to what he meant to Voldemort. 

The coffin was placed six feet below the earth, flashbulbs went off from several corners as the journalists hurried to catch the speakers for interviews, Hagrid covered the casket with brown earth, and the mourners dispersed. 

The door opened again, and Snape entered, looking harried and paler than usual. He did not like reporters, Harry knew. He stopped his abrupt entry when he saw who was present. 

“My lord-”

“It is time to appoint the new Headmaster,” Voldemort said quietly. He waved his hand and the Hat came to him, sulking. 

“You can do that?” Harry asked, wondering. The Hat was a crochety artefact. 

“My blood is Salazar’s, and my blood is yours,” Voldemort told him teasingly, harking back to their earlier conversation. 

Harry saw a shadow of displeasure in Snape’s gaze. Right, Snape did not approve of the pederasty business. Harry had to look up what it meant, exactly. 

“I have not rewarded you for your valiant rescue,” Voldemort told Snape, drawing closer. Snape looked wary. 

“You have proven yourself as the remarkable wizard you have always had it in you to be,” Voldemort continued. “Mind over heart, Severus, and heart over mind. The balance has not come easily to you. You have attained it, nonetheless. I am proud of you.” 

Snape’s emotions were wild, skittering from fear to suspicion to exultant triumph, as he basked in the praise. Harry suppressed a grin and turned away to look at the treeline. Snape craved validation. Harry’s validation had not meant anything, but clearly Voldemort’s did. He heard stumbling words of gratitude from a man he had once considered unshakeable and unfeeling. He heard Voldemort’s gracious replies. He heard the Hat’s mutterings. It did not sound pleased. Neither did it sound displeased. 

Once silence settled in the room, Harry turned to face them and said sincerely, “I wish you the best, Headmaster.”

Snape’s wariness on hearing Harry’s words eased to acceptance when Harry smiled at him. Voldemort nodded to them and left the room. In accord, Harry’s and Snape’s gazes moved to the portrait of a man who had mentored them both. 

Dumbledore’s portrait opened its eyes, and said fondly, “No man worthier than you, Severus.” 

“I will not let a single child be harmed under my care,” Snape promised solemnly.

“I know,” the portrait replied calmly. “I have always known.” 

Harry did not stay there. He did not wish to witness the discomposure on Snape’s face. He left the room and closed the door behind him. 

Dumbledore and Snape; theirs was an odd relationship. Harry could not put his finger on it, but he had a suspicion that he had barely scratched the surface of Snape’s devotion to Dumbledore. Knowing how Snape loved, knowing how Dumbledore planned, Harry knew he did not care to find out the rest of it. 

Footsteps drew close and Harry quickly leapt behind a tapestry to take a short-cut away. He did not care to see anyone else. He needed quiet. He walked up briskly, through Ravenclaw territory, until he reached a familiar corridor. 

What had drawn him here? 

He did not wish to meet anyone else. He had no place to be. He entered the Room. It would grant him privacy, surely. There was a comfortable couch there, and a few books, and a flagon of butterbeer. Good! Harry could spend a few hours here, and then go home. 

He made for the couch, and then found that there was a smaller bottle by the butterbeer. He knew the silvery substance inside. Memories. He reached out carefully and he felt Slughorn’s magic, and Dumbledore’s. He collapsed on the couch, afraid. These were the memories he had put away, saying that there was no point to any of it anymore. Dumbledore was dead and Harry was Voldemort’s. Neither of those was going to change. 

“Why did you bring this here now?” 

There was no answer. Had he expected the room to provide him a scroll containing the reasons?

He took his wand and took a deep breath. Best to get it over with, and then forget all about it. 

—-

Only, he entered the memory and knew with terrible certainty that he would not be able to forget it. 

At the window stood Eloise. It was dark outside. There was a silver moon glinting in the skies, outshining the dimmer stars. The wind was cold and brought winter. The woman sighed and placed a hand on the bannister. The door opened then, and Voldemort entered. She turned with a smile to greet him. The coldness in his gaze eased to carefulness as he approached her. 

“You sent for me,” he said quietly, drawing close and reaching out to push away a tendril of her hair that had come loose from her elaborate updo.

She basked in his care, Harry could tell that so easily. He did not blame her. He knew how solicitous Voldemort could be. He knew how flattering it was to have the man’s attention fixed solely on a single person. 

“I am terrified,” she whispered. “I have to tell you.” 

“Yes?” Voldemort coaxed her, drawing her to him, into the circle of his arms. He did not look at ease, not the way he had when he was with a male partner. He looked determined, though. He looked determined to treat her right and to treat her gently. 

Eloise did not reply. There was the sheen of tears in her bright, blue eyes. Determined and brave, she drew his hands to her stomach, and waited expectantly for her sentence. Voldemort looked confused, and then worried, and then completely at a loss for words. His hands skittered over her womb, touching and retreating, as if frightened that he might harm. She was shaking, close to a full-blown panic attack, and Voldemort took a deep breath before kissing her forehead in reassurance. 

“I am sorry! I am so sorry!” she wailed then, falling to pieces, covering her face with her palms and turning away. 

“It takes two,” Voldemort said plainly. “Come now, Eloise. Pull yourself together.”

“Will you turn me out?” 

Voldemort looked scandalised. Harry could see in him the determination borne of his mother’s own tragedy. 

“Lucius will be horrified! The shame! The shame of it!” she continued, trembling, frightened. 

“There now, there now, I will deal with all of that.” Voldemort hesitated then, clearly weighing his options. “I have been meaning to give you this as a token of my appreciation. It is perhaps the opportune moment.” He fished around in his robes and extracted a locket that Harry remembered from Dumbledore’s memories of Merope. “It was my mother’s. Keep it.”

“I don’t want this,” she said firmly, resolve replacing fear. From the stricken silence between them, Harry knew that she was not speaking of the locket Voldemort had extended towards her. 

“Take this,” Voldemort said calmly, placing the locket about her neck. “I am giving it to you nonetheless. We shall discuss the other matter once I am back. I am running late for an appointment.” 

“Will you return here tonight?” 

“Yes.”

“I shall set a place for you at the Halloween feast then,” she said, reaching up to brush a kiss across his cheek. “There is blackberry crumble. Don’t be too late.” 

“As my lady commands,” he said charmingly, drawing a smile out of her. 

He lingered there a moment, no doubt to drink in the sight of her, as she stood there, against the dark skies and the bright moon, with the locket on her pale bosom, against the stark purple of her gown and the gold of her hair. Her right hand moved to the locket, and her left right stayed cupped over her womb. 

——

Harry placed his head in his hands and rubbed off his tears. She had been pregnant. Voldemort had gone to Godric’s Hollow, and had never returned to take his place at her table for the Halloween feast. He had killed Harry’s parents, and Harry’s mother had brought him low, when he had tried to spare her to honour Snape’s pleas. Oh, how they were all tied together in grief and malice! 

Harry picked up the closest book. It was about Veritaserum. The book flipped open to the ninth chapter, and it spoke of how it was unsafe to administer the potion to pregnant women. 

Little wonder she had lost sanity. Little wonder that Voldemort had sworn off sexual partners after his return. 

Voldemort did not eat blackberries. Harry had noticed that often at Rheims, where there were blackberry bushes aplenty. Clara liked to prepare blackberry dishes, and she had complained to Harry that Voldemort did not favour them anymore. 

—— 

He spent a great deal of time in the Room. The weight of what he had learned settled uneasily on him. He knew he could not go home and expect Voldemort to be oblivious. He needed to calm down further. Even if Voldemort found out that Harry knew, he needed to make sure that he was rational enough to have a discussion. 

He thought a lot about Lily, and about Eloise. It unsettled him greatly. Then he thought of Petunia, who had written to Snape despite her intense dislike, to ask about Harry. Had she asked whether he was still alive? Snape had not spoken too harshly of her when he had mentioned the letter. Had she been actually concerned? 

He swallowed. He had put Petunia out of his mind for long enough. Maybe it was time for a visit. Maybe it was time to tell her that he still relived memories of his horrible childhood and that it had broken him in so many ways, but that he was still grateful for what little she had done. Had he been worth more care? Yes. Molly had told him that so many times. So had Madam Pomfrey. The cards he had been dealt with had been different, and it could have been worse, couldn’t it? 

—— 

Privet Drive was as he remembered it. Memories, painful, arose in him. He stifled his emotions and walked to the door. The knocker was less polished than it used to be. Well, there was no Harry to polish it anymore. 

The lady who opened it was young, in her thirties. She had a sweet face and a pink apron. Had Vernon finally caved in and agreed to employ a maid? 

“I was looking for Petunia,” Harry said, trying to paste a smile on his face, and failing. 

Her open expression faded, and she looked shifty. 

“What is it?” 

“She does not live here anymore.”

Harry’s face must have shown his shock, because she backtracked, sympathetic, and said kindly, “You have her face. Are you related to her?”

Harry nodded. Nobody had told him that before. He had Lily’s face, Horace had said. The same set of the jaw. Was that Petunia’s too? They had shared genetics, for all that they despised each other.

“Why don’t you come in for a cuppa?” 

The mantel held different pictures. Uncle Vernon was still there, big and red, and his arm was proudly slung about his young bride’s waist. Harry was shaking. 

“My name is Pam,” the lady said, eyes full of caution and worry. Harry sat down to stop looming over her. It was the same sofa. The creak told him as much. It had a different cover, though. Everything was the same, and yet nothing was. She bustled off into the kitchen to make a pot of a tea, leaving Harry to look at the familiar ceilings, the staircase that Dudley had thundered down for breakfast, the umbrella bin that Petunia had picked up at a flea market though she had never told her neighbours that when they had asked her about it. The pastels Petunia favoured had been replaced with bright yellows and whites. If he turned a few inches, he knew he would see the cupboard that had been his home. 

She came to him bearing a chipped teapot and two cups. She poured him tea and sat down across in what had been once Petunia’s chair. 

“I don’t know how to tell you,” she said sadly, looking torn between honesty and consideration. “The boy died in a motorcycle accident. The mam was heart-sick and died a few weeks later. They say that she went walking by the river near her parents’s old house, and then lost her footing.” 

Harry got up and walked to his cupboard. It had been painted over, a nice shade of yellow, and he laughed hysterically. Was the drug still in his system? 

“Would you like to wait for Vernon?” 

Pam had treated him well. It was the best he had been treated in this house. He shook his head and he realized he was close to tears. He shook his head again, mumbled a few words of gratitude for her time, and ran out of the house. The last he noticed was the familiar flower beds he had painstakingly toiled over, for meagre scraps of bread. 

—-

Harry was not dressed for Geneva. He threw his warming charms, Flitwick’s charms, and then trudged towards where his magic led him to. 

She was there on the ski slopes, watching the skiers, and sipping from a mug of hot chocolate. She noticed him quickly. He must be the only one dressed poorly on the slopes. 

“Harry,” she said quietly, when he came to sit beside her on the bench. “You didn’t reply to my letters.” 

“I didn’t know what to say,” he confessed. 

“Why did you come here then?” 

She did not sound angry. She sounded tired. As if to confirm, she continued, “I have been with you for ten years now. Ron too. We believed you through it all. Why didn’t you reply to our letters?”

“It is true,” he said wretchedly, forcing himself to meet her betrayed gaze. 

She had stood by him even when Ron had not. She had stood by him when even when it had meant isolation and revilement. He owed her the truth.

“I am sleeping with him. I love him. I can’t explain any of it. It doesn’t make sense, even in my own head. He is a cruel man. He has done every act of evil imaginable. He treats me well.”

“How would you know? You have hardly a reference.”

“You are right,” Harry admitted. “I don’t have a reference. Maybe this is the most functional relationship I can be in, without harming the other person. I wouldn’t wish myself on Ginny, or anyone decent. I am greedy and possessive. I am a minefield of emotional dysfunction and insecurities.” 

She did not say anything to that. They sat there, in brooding silence, watching the skiers. 

“This explains why Professor Snape knew, all along. You lied to us about how you ended up in Nurmengard. So many died for you.” She sighed, putting the pieces together. “Have you seen Ron?” 

“No, I haven’t seen anyone else. I haven’t told anyone else.”

“Will you tell him?”

“Yes, I will.”

Someday. 

“We didn’t deserve to read that sordid rag to find out.”

Harry shook his head numbly. They had deserved better. Hermione needed to know about Flitwick and Moody too. And about Slughorn. He did not know where to begin. Truth was difficult to start with when it had been buried under heaps of lies.

“I wish to thank him,” Hermione said then, resolved. “He saved you during the war.” 

“I don’t think that is a good idea,” Harry said automatically.

“What is the worst he can do? Kill a mudblood?” She laughed, wiping her cold cheeks free of the tears. “Oh, Harry, what have you done?”

Dumbledore had covertly encouraged it. How could Harry explain that? It would sound like madness. Maybe Dumbledore had a touch of madness. Harry too. Maybe that was why they could understand Voldemort’s mind, to a degree. 

Hermione’s thin hand covered his then. He looked up at her. 

“Take me, Harry. Is your preferred method these days that I write a letter to the Daily Prophet?”

That was vicious. He had earned it.

“Let me first try to make sure that you will be safe.” 

“This gets better and better. Can you hear yourself, Harry? You want to make sure that the man you claim to be in love with won’t kill your friend?”

Frightened, Harry reached out to the bond. It lay dormant. Voldemort was likely not at home, was likely somewhere plotting and scheming. He did not want to face the man. Memories of Eloise still lingered in his mind, and they had blended in with his horror about Petunia’s death. He suppressed that. He had not known how to react when he had heard the tale from Vernon’s new bride. He had come to Hermione, by instinct, because somehow she had always known what to do. 

“I will not risk your safety,” he tried to explain, hoping that she could let it go, hoping that she would, for once, allay her stubbornness. “I would die to protect you from him, from anyone else.”

She did not reply. 

——

He wound up at Dumbledore’s tomb. Fang was barking in the distance. He hoped that he had not woken up Hagrid. 

He sensed magic drawing nearer. Magic that was close enough to his for it to nearly go unnoticed. Fang stopped barking. 

“Your sense for magic is stronger than it was two years ago.” 

“The perks of being the Dark Lord’s nubile, young bedmate,” Harry said tiredly, propping himself up against the side of the marble tomb. His robes were wet from the snow and he was frozen to the bone, but he could not bring himself to care. 

“The bed was empty,” Voldemort remarked, sitting down daintily beside Harry, sweeping his robes across the snow with his characteristic economy of movement that it clenched Harry’s heart tight to notice it. 

How was it that he knew the man so well, in mannerisms and habits, and that he did not yet know the man at all? He had not even known if Hermione would be safe in his presence. 

“Aunt Petunia died.” 

“I had nothing to do with it.”

“I know. I was not blaming you for it.”

“For a very long time, I have been blamed for everything. I have to admit there were strong reasons to hold so.”

“You don’t have any cure for my misery now.” 

“My tricks are few and you disapprove of them all. Harry, I don’t claim to understand the relationship you had with her. The connection seems influential and has shaped you in many ways, whether you accept it or not. I cannot cure you unless I know what ails you. Are you grieving her death? Are you grieving the childhood she did not give you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. So here we are.”

“It is snowing,” Harry said, exhausted. He did not want to dwell on any of it. He wanted to sleep and then spend the rest of his life in denial about everything that had happened this day. “You must be cold. Let us go home.” 

“Quis nisi vel miles vel amans et frigora noctis et denso mixtas perferet imbre nives?”

Harry frowned. He could translate it roughly. Who would brave the snow except a soldier or a lover?

“Catullus?”

“Ovid. I am an ardent believer in his elegy now. Every lover is a soldier, and Cupid has his own camp.” 

——

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sure this is unnecessary, but don't try to buy lysergic acid and diethyl amine. 
> 
> Voldemort is speaking about Amores (Ovid) and the famous 'Love is War' elegy.


	39. Nothing shall be dearer to me

——

She held court in Grimmauld Place as if she had been born to it. Harry found himself wondering how Sirius would have reacted, seeing her slouch on the same couch he had once slouched on with the grace of a beautiful, dangerous feline. They had had that in common. Among other things. Harry looked at the portrait. Sirius, all of nine or ten, standing away from his family, was scowling.

“Maybe there is more of him in you than I guessed,” she said, leaning forward, treating him to a generous display of her ample bosom. 

She was in her trademark black. Lace, corset, and silks. Painted red lips. God, Harry really did not want to imagine what Sirius had liked her for. 

“What do you mean?” he asked, sitting back straight in his chair, keeping his eyes fixed on her face. 

“Mind-games. My cousin loved them. He was intelligent. A Black too. When he turned his mind to malice, there was nobody who could match him. Look at Snape now. My cousin broke his confidence and fucked up his mind so long ago, and he is still grappling with the consequences. Maybe you will say that was cruel. What do you say about what he did to his own mother, Potter? Aunt Walburga was a strong woman. She loved her beautiful, intelligent son. And he knew exactly what to do to break her heart. She hid it all under spite and hate, but all the same, she died a broken woman. Sirius was her son. Regulus was only the spare.”

Harry listened to that rant nervously. Walburga was that screaming portrait who had called Sirius names. She had turned him out of the house, she had burned his name off the family tapestry, she had declared him no son of hers. Regulus’s death had broken her, not Sirius’s desertion. Harry knew all this. There was in Bellatrix’s mad eyes a kernel of truth however. Had Sirius truly wanted to break his mother? He had hated her and all that she stood for. He had been treated as the black sheep of the family. He had to live with James because his mad family had disowned him at fifteen.

“I didn’t enjoy what happened to Flitwick.”

“What happened to Flitwick? Potter, you caused it. You willed it.”

Harry looked at his nails. There was a thickness in his chest that had been there heavy for weeks. Bellatrix let out a laugh, followed by a rattling sigh.

“I didn’t see any other way,” Harry said tiredly, wanting her to believe, wanting himself to believe. 

“Death would have been more merciful. I think he would have preferred it to living like a vegetable inside the insanity ward of St. Mungo’s.”

Harry would have preferred to die than to be left comatose. Why hadn’t he been able to give Flitwick that? Why had he instinctively chosen to break the man’s mind? 

“You are not a heroine in a damn bodice-ripper novella, Potter.” There was a strange intensity to her madness right then. Harry leaned in closer. “Maybe once you were only Dumbledore’s puppet. Maybe events happened to you then. It is no longer the case, however. You cause events, by your choices, by your actions. You can’t run from responsibility and hide behind fate. You chose to rip up Flitwick’s mind instead of killing him.”

“I knew I could not kill him. I knew I could not win that duel any other way,” Harry confessed, stricken. She had seen right through him. She had seen right through him to the core of what haunted him. “I didn’t want to die. The only thing I had more of was power. I used it to break his mind.”

“Now you can stop moping and blaming everybody else for your cruel fate,” she said, with a satisfied smirk on her face. “You had the choice to die at his hands. You chose to break him and live with it.” 

How could she be so insightful and so insane at the same time? 

“I am glad to see that you are back to your normal self,” Harry said tiredly. “I should leave.” 

“Stop dilly-dallying about the war, Potter. It must end. We both know how it must end for you to be safe.” 

—-

Geneva was a city that hosted the largest number of international conventions in the world. Harry had heard Hermione talk about that once. He could not remember why it was so, but he was sure she had explained the reasons. 

So there he stood with her, nervous and hopeful, in the little cafe by the ski-slopes. 

“So you want to ask everyone to come here. You want to summon them here to tell them that you have chosen to support your…paramour.”

There was revulsion in her voice, though she was attempting valiantly to overcome it. She would always try to accept what he had chosen, even if she vehemently disagreed. Harry’s heart surged with affection for her and instinctively he reached out to cup her cheek, only for her to flinch and take a step away from him. The next moment saw her remorseful and Harry knew that she would try to apologise, to come and hug him. 

He shook his head and said calmly, “Don’t force yourself to do what you don’t want to do, Hermione.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

She hadn’t meant to show her disgust at touching skin that had known lust at the hands of a man who had wanted to kill all Muggle borns. 

“How can I blame you?” Harry asked, trying to soothe her into calmness. “Hermione, I have asked too much of you in the past. I am doing that again. Don’t get yourself worked into knots over this, all right? Please?”

She bit her lips and nodded fiercely. There was a sheen to her eyes. They were all so broken still. She still craved his validation and friendship, and feared isolation. Was that why she had accepted Ron’s offer of marriage? 

Remus was the first to arrive. There was more grey in his hair than when Harry had seen him last at the Ministry. That had been a long time ago. Moody had been alive then. Amelia had been alive then. Horace and Flitwick had been alive then. 

Remus’s wand was held steady and his shield charm prickled Harry’s skin. Oh, what had he thought that Harry had summoned him to?

“You are alone then?” Remus asked, eyes wary. 

Harry was about to reply when a trio of Weasleys Apparated in. Ron came to Hermione’s side, protectively, hovering in uncertainty, but looking at Harry willing him to explain it all as a joke that could be forgotten before life went back to normal. Molly’s eyes were red and Arthur looked so sad. The next loud pop announced Professor McGonagall and with her came Hagrid. Hagrid opened his arms and Harry ran to him, suddenly overwhelmed, tears choking his throat and stopping the words he had wanted to say. 

“There, there,” rumbled Hagrid, patting his back, making Harry’s ribs rattle, making his knees nearly give out. 

“Hagrid, let the young man breathe,” Professor McGonagall said sternly. 

“No, it is all right,” Harry said, wheezing, and stepping back. He took a deep breath and said quietly, “I wanted to offer an explanation of my actions. I don’t know what you have heard. I don’t know what you believe. I want to tell you what I chose two years ago, and I want to tell you what I wish to do now.”

Molly sighed and Arthur pulled her to him comfortingly. She knew what he was going to say, Harry realised. She knew him well. He had once knelt before Voldemort and taken his mark, before her, before many others, and he had sworn that she would not cry again for him. He had failed that vow.

“I took the mark because I had to, because Dumbledore wanted me to hold London. Voldemort was the only one who could have defeated Grindelwald. So I had to make peace with him for all our sakes. It was worth the mark. I don’t regret it.” Harry looked away from the disbelief in Professor McGonagall’s eyes. “I truly mean that. Before I took the mark, before Dumbledore and the others signed that armistice, Voldemort and I had come to mutual understanding. I had gone to kill him. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was folly. I don’t know. We wound up coming to a truce, setting aside the prophecy.”

“You slept with him,” Remus pointed out, looking uncomfortable but determined. Professor McGonagall cleared her throat in disapproval. “I came from France to help you after the terrible events of that summer and you talked about an older man. You were already sleeping with him, weren’t you?”

Harry had asked Remus questions about his blooming attraction to a man. Remus had teased him. 

“Let him finish, Remus,” Molly said then. 

Dumbledore had been unwavering in his convictions. Harry needed to be as strong as he had been. He gathered his courage and went on. “I know I should have come clean earlier. There was no good time. I was afraid. I was happy then. I had family. I had friends. I had someone I loved. I didn’t want to break that happiness.” 

“What are you going to do now?” Arthur asked. He looked haggard. 

“I don’t want any part of the political drama. I don’t want any part of other people’s causes. I want to be left in peace.” 

Harry exhaled and dared a glance at Ron. His friend did not meet his gaze and the set jaw gave Harry no hope. “I will come back and fight for you, for any of you, if that becomes necessary. I don’t think it will. Voldemort will play the cards right, I think. He will put consolidation of power over more wars he does not have the numbers to fight.”

“He killed my best friends,” Remus said coldly. “He killed them in cold blood.” 

Molly had tears running down her cheeks. Her brothers had fallen in the first war. Harry wanted to go and apologise to her, to comfort her, to hug her, but he stayed where he was. 

“If there is another war, more people will die. Maybe you will get the justice you want. Maybe you will kill him. Maybe you will die.” Harry forced himself to continue, “If that is what you want, I am not going to stand in your way.”

“You can’t set aside destiny, Harry,” Remus said. “James and Lily died because of you, because of the prophecy, because of this madman who decided to mark you as his equal. Only one of you can live.”

“Dumbledore told me that there are many prophecies stored in the Ministry archives, but that only a handful of them come to pass.”

“Did Albus know all along?” Professor McGonagall asked then, with steel in her voice. “Did he condone it for the greater good?” 

“He tried to warn me multiple times,” Harry said awkwardly. 

Dumbledore had encouraged him subtly, after Christmas, after he had realised that he would not survive Grindelwald. Had it been for the greater good? Had it been for Harry’s own good? Harry did not want to discuss any of that. Dumbledore had been a complicated man. 

“I blame him much more than I blame you,” the Professor said quietly. “He should have known better. You were only a child.”

“No longer,” Harry said firmly. “I am not a child. Please don’t blame him now. He tried his best, to save us all, and sometimes he had to make decisions he did not like for the greater good. His ability to do that kept us safe for so long.”

“Dumbledore’s man, Harry,” Hagrid said proudly. “Knew you always were.” 

Harry wished it was as simple in his head. He wished he was half as accepting of himself and of his choices as Hagrid seemed to be. So many had called Hagrid foolish, but they did not know the man at all. He had saved Harry from the Dursleys. He was Harry’s first friend. Tom Riddle had ruined Hagrid’s life. How could Hagrid bear to touch Harry, to look at him, to forgive him, to accept his choice? 

“Hogwarts will always welcome you, should you be in need,” Professor McGonagall said staunchly. “I shall not deny that I think your course is rash and dangerous, Harry. You were James’s boy, risking so much to get Neville’s Remember-all back, protecting him from bullying. I saw in you so much of your parents and Sirius. Nevertheless, you are a young man now. So many have tried to control you, to make decisions for you. I did not agree with that.” She exhaled. “This is a decision you are making, all by yourself, without anyone coercing you. Am I correct?”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry said, feeling that he was in her class again, being offered biscuits when Umbridge had goaded him one too many times. 

“Good.” She nodded crisply. 

—-

When Harry walked into the house, he saw Voldemort carefully weaving spells of carpentry across the large, ruined oaken beams of the roof. The expression of intense concentration on his lover’s face as he joined plank to beam made Harry’s heart beat faster. Harry sat down on the floor and watched the spells bring roof solid over the charred room. The debris had been cleared up and the place looked barren without the burnt carpet and furniture. Had he been so caught up in his mental torment that he had not noticed that they were living in a burned down house that he had insisted they rebuild? It was fortunate that Voldemort did not require luxurious accommodations, but Harry felt guilty that he had not gotten around to repairing and rebuilding, as he had intended to.

When the last plank joined the rest, there was no more sunlight streaming in. Harry went to the candles and lit them. 

“I am sorry,” he told Voldemort sincerely. “I had wanted to rebuild. I had wanted to do so much for you. All I gave was words, though. I didn’t act. I was caught up in my own head, so conflicted by what I had done. I didn’t want to admit to myself that I had broken a man’s mind. I ran away from that and tried to take it out on you. I am sorry. I will do better by you from now on.”

Voldemort looked concerned, as if wondering what had happened to bring the apology. Harry realised that he rarely apologised. Voldemort was not given to apologies either. They usually resolved disagreement with sex. And somehow, he saw what had happened over the past few weeks. Voldemort had tried to draw him out of his brown study, with drugs and sex, with every means he knew of. He had run out of ways. So he had fallen back to something he knew Harry had wanted once. He had decided to repair the house. What had he feared? Had he feared that Harry would take after Abraxas and continue stubbornly to destroy himself because of responsibility he did not want to shoulder?

Harry took a deep breath and looked at the restored room. Oak and birch and rosewood reminded him of Hogwarts. The candles were yellow. Beeswax. Voldemort had made them from the wax he had collected from the beehives Clara kept in the woods. Had he worn his strange contraption while doing so? Harry walked closer to him. He smelled rosemary. It was the same scent that Harry had smelled on him that first morning when he had woken up in Voldemort’s bed in the house at Derbyshire. 

“You made soap. I would have liked to do that with you.”

“We run out of it quickly,” Voldemort replied. “If you wish, we can make soap together the next time.”

“Yes, I would like to.”

Voldemort nodded and asked politely, “Shall we have dinner?”

Harry closed the distance between them then, and he took Voldemort by surprise when he gripped his arms and pressed a rough kiss to his cheek. They were nearly the same height, Harry realised. They were nearly equals. Harry swore to himself that they would be true equals in their relationship, one day. He had to stop miring himself in emotional turmoil for what he had done to Flitwick. It was done. Voldemort had not been there. He had not had any part in Harry’s decisions in Slughorn’s dungeon. He had not deserved the brunt of Harry’s angst and anger.

“I am sorry,” he said again.

“I don’t claim to understand. There is nothing to forgive,” Voldemort said quietly, though his eyes were flared bright in emotion, though his arms came to wind about Harry’s waist as if they had craved to do exactly that for weeks. And Harry realised Voldemort was being truthful. He had accepted the dysfunctional nature of the past few weeks as normal. Harry felt guiltier. One day at a time, he decided, trying to be calm, trying not to let his remorse break their reconciliation. He would fix this. 

Voldemort’s lips caught his own then, driving thought away, replacing it with lust and need. He surged into the kiss, and exhaled in surprise when Voldemort pushed him against the nearest wall. It was unlike him to be so rough. Harry delighted in it. He met the man with equal passion, trading teeth for teeth, drinking in the sharp noises of pleasure that escaped his lover. 

“Enough!” Voldemort said harshly, pulling away, his eyes glittering. “Now to the bedroom with you, Harry. Strip and get on your knees.”

Arousal nearly blinded Harry at those words. He fell to his knees and then realised that he had forgotten to strip. He reached for his wand, but Voldemort’s foot came to knock his hand away. Harry’s erection did not mind that at all, not a bit, and he kept his eyes fixed on Voldemort as he awkwardly shimmied out of his clothes. Voldemort’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. Harry reached to grab him by the waist, but Voldemort stepped back and shook his head.

“Hands clasped together behind you,” Voldemort ordered. “I want you to make me come with only your mouth. I want to watch you stuffed full. It may be too much, but you will still be greedy for cock, whining when I pull out, moaning deep in your throat when I push in, like the insatiable harlot you are.” 

Harry placed his hands in a clasp behind his back and whined in need, desperately aroused by Voldemort’s words. Oh, when he put his mind to it, Voldemort could craft such filthy, decadent scenarios. Harry’s eyes widened and his arousal intensified as he watched Voldemort casually fish his cock out of his robes, reminding him of the clients at the boot-boy’s, who had sat there regally while the boy had been polishing their shoes. 

“Open wide.” 

It was perfect. It was what Harry had needed. He moved his head up and down to keep a rough rhythm. Voldemort’s coherence was starting to fade. 

“Such dedication!” he said, spreading his legs wider, reaching out with a hand to brace himself against the wall. “Look at you, the picture you make! Covered in saliva and sweat, and so eager.”

“Put one of your hands to good use,” Voldemort commanded, taking over from Harry, setting a gentler rhythm than the one Harry had chosen, driving him wild with the barely there thrusts.And then Harry felt the familiar spell inside. “Finger yourself open. Fast.”

It was uncoordinated and graceless. He managed sloppily and it only aroused him further when Voldemort said, “Turn around. Oh, Harry, such a mess.” And then, he did something that made Harry come. He used the edge of his robes to daub away the excess lubricant from Harry’s thighs and around his anus. As Harry shivered in the aftermath of his orgasm, Voldemort entered him and began fucking him fast and deep, just as Harry liked it best. His body was clenching from the climax still, and overloaded by the stimuli, of Voldemort’s cock deep in him, of Voldemort’s hands on his waist, of Voldemort’s body over his, of Voldemort’s lips whispering filth into his ears. 

It was a wonder that he could walk by himself to the bed later. His knees were bruised. His joints ached. His cock was so sensitive that even a gust of air made him tremble. His lips were swollen and his throat was parched. He gratefully took the glass of water Voldemort offered and finished it in one long gulp. 

“Come here,” he said hoarsely. “Hold me for a few minutes.” 

Voldemort smiled and complied, taking his robes off and slipping under the sheets with Harry. Oh, his skin was warm and flushed, and when Harry touched his face, the well-deserved smugness in his eyes softened. When had they last had sex for pleasure, without other motivations? It had been a long while ago. Something had been set right between them, Harry felt, though he was not sure why. A cuckoo burst of the clock then, calling out the time, and mischief glinted in Voldemort’s gaze. 

“You are impossible,” Harry said, heart full of adoration and pride. Watching what kindled in Voldemort’s eyes, Harry continued solemnly, “I have held us in limbo long enough.”

Voldemort frowned before saying lightly, “I must try harder the next time to fuck the saviour out of you.” 

“You have been trying in vain,” Harry retorted, rolling his eyes.

And when he woke up the next day, he found Voldemort already awake, poring over a map of Britain. 

—-

 

He stood in the grand square, alone amidst couples feeding pigeons and large groups of students hurrying to classes. The clock struck nine. Above him loomed large the majestic edifice of the Sorbonne. 

He gritted his teeth, told himself to be calm, and walked towards the university offices. A few girls had taken notice of him and they were whispering to each other, giggling. He had been like that once, a teenager with a teenager’s mind and desires. He had taken notice of the opposite sex and he had nursed tender fantasies. He tipped his cap to them and smiled when they giggled more and walked away from him.

“Comment puis-je t’aider?” asked the young clerk at the front desk, looking at him over large glasses not unlike his own. 

“I don’t speak French,” he apologised. “I want to learn the language. I also want to enroll in basic classes. For physics. I really want to learn physics.”

The clerk took pity on him and shoved a bunch of brochures his way. They were about courses on offering that semester. They were also about financial aid and scholarships. It was overwhelming. 

“Take your time,” the clerk said kindly. “Come back when you have selected your preferences. Please bring your identifying documents. We can see if we can register you for the qualification exams starting in the next week.”

—-

He found a small cafe near the Chapel of Sainte Ursule. He sat outside at a rickety table, in the pale winter sun, sipping his espresso, and leafing through the brochures.

 

He made notes on a piece of parchment and his fingers hurt as they held a pen for the first time in years. He would have to get used to that. 

Dusk came, and then he was shooed out by the owner. He was about to return home, but he felt a whim to visit the chapel. There was a sense of dread lingering in him, maybe born of what had happened at Canterbury, maybe because of Petunia’s death still in his thoughts. 

He remembered the names slowly. Peter, the rock. Paul, who had written many epistles. Moses, holding up the Ten Commandments.

There was Jeanne d’Arc, the Maid, whom they had burned at a stake for trying to liberate them all. Voices in her head. He thought of his second year, when they had accused him of being Slytherin’s heir. He thought of all the accusations about the voices in his head. She had died young. He had never expected to survive as long as he had.

He climbed the stairs and entered the chapel. Above him was the cupola’s interior, richly decorated. The pews were empty. Candles flickered from the altars they had been set upon. The evening sun poured to the floors through the high stained-glass windows. He walked to the statue of the Virgin. Petunia had not been a Catholic. He did not know any Catholics. He was reminded of Eloise as he looked upon the lady in blue and white, pure of heart and a tool for greater men. 

Light blazed in the chapel brighter than the setting sun. Phoenix song burst into the silence.

Footsteps sounded behind him, echoing off the cavernous walls. He turned, casting a shield charm effortlessly, to face the intruder. 

It was Snape. Fawkes sat perched on his right shoulder. 

Harry wondered if the Virgin reminded him of Lily. Close to, he saw shadows cast by the candle-light dancing sombre on Snape’s face. There was finality in his eyes. 

“Yes?” Harry asked, alarmed. 

“Jeanne d’Arc was here to coronate Charles VII of France,” Snape told him. 

True. She had been handed over to the English by Burgundy, if Harry remembered correctly from his occasional foray through Voldemort’s books on European history.

Harry felt Snape’s probing spells measuring his shield charm. 

He was not afraid. Somehow, in this place of candles and saints, he felt as sure as Dumbledore had in Canterbury. 

“The Dark Lord took Britain at noon,” Snape announced. Doves nesting in the rafters stirred restlessly at his loud tones resonating in the chapel. 

“Fudge resigned,” Snape pressed on. “The Order has been given forty-eight hours to offer a truce and to lay down arms. There was a purge through the Ministry, weeding out the troublemakers and the naysayers, imprisoning some, holding others to blackmail, and exiling yet many others, and some say that a few were thrown into Azkaban.” 

The candles flickered to dimness as alarm caught Harry in its thrall. Snape looked frightened, for a second, before his features eased to impassivity. Harry was magic there, standing before the Virgin, and he felt the weight of deception lie heavy on Snape as thick as the black cloak he wore. 

“He wanted me to fetch you to his side,” Snape said.

“He can come to me,” Harry replied firmly. “Go back, Professor. Go back to him and tell him that I am waiting here.” 

Snape’s composure cracked and he said softly, “Potter, Harry, I must take you away before he comes for you. You are his Jeanne d’Arc, the people’s saviour. All he needs you for is to validate his takeover. He cares only for conquest, Potter. He has you now. There is no conquest left, is there? You know that as well as I do, as well as Abraxas Malfoy once did.”

“Where will you take me?” Harry asked. 

The man still would die for him, for his mother’s sake, for Dumbledore’s sake. Snape believed in carting him away to safety. Only, Snape had not the power to keep him safe. The only man who could have kept him safe from Voldemort was dead. 

“I swore to keep you safe,” Snape said. There was no lie in those words. “I must try.” 

“You have kept me safe all my life. Whatever vow you swore to Dumbledore, I release you from it. It is my turn now. I will keep you safe,” Harry said quietly. Snape’s eyes were wide in shock. “I am not Dumbledore. There is no greater good that I will sacrifice my life and love, and my family and friends for. I am his. That truth will keep us all safe.”

“You will not leave then,” Snape said, fear and wonderment mixed in his tones.

“I will complete what Abraxas Malfoy began,” Harry said truthfully. “I will love him as best I can, and that is no difficult task. I hope that it will be enough, that we will not tip the balance of his sanity, that his determination will hold to stay clear of madness.” 

Snape looked uncertain and lost, as if robbed of purpose, but he pulled himself together, as bravely as Harry knew he always had, and said, “If that is your decision, I shall not attempt to sway you.” He hesitated then, and continued in a softer tone, “You have grown into a fierce man. I scarcely recognize you as the child who came to us ten years ago. Lily would be proud of you.”

How could Snape say that? How well had Snape known her? It was easy to love someone whom you did not truly know. She had given him up for a cruel insult, while they had been only children. 

Harry nodded in acceptance. He knew that Snape was trying to bring peace between them, to show Harry that he supported his decision to stay, to encourage Harry on his course; a statement of validation that should matter amidst all the friends he had left by choosing Voldemort. 

“I did not know her, Professor,” he said quietly, trying to be tactful. “She died for me. She saved me.” Grief marred the other man’s face. Harry continued, “So did my father. So did Sirius. And you, you would have died for me too. You came close to dying for me, so many times. It matters to me that my mother would have been proud of me. And my father. And Sirius. I think, though, that it matters equally to me that you are proud of me.” 

“I did not thank you for bringing me news of Albus,” Snape said. His voice was so thin and close to breaking that Harry looked away. “I thought it cruel, then. You see, I had come to Godric’s Hollow and found you alive beside her corpse. Then you came to me again, to tell me about Albus. How cruel, I wondered, that you have brought me tidings of death twice. I see it differently now. Fate is cruel, perhaps. You were not.”

Snape had still pulled him together when he had come from Hungary with Slughorn. Snape had still shown him kindness when he had come to Dumbledore’s tomb after sharing that terrifying dream with Voldemort. He would make a good Headmaster, Harry realised. He could never match Dumbledore, but then nobody could. Yet, Snape might, in time. If he had been able to set aside his resentment and his old griefs to save Harry so often and unflinchingly, if he had been able to function despite everything he had borne, despite his unceasing self-hatred and tendency to blame himself for all that had gone wrong, perhaps he might in time, in a few decades, become as capable a Headmaster as Dumbledore had been. Harry wanted both of them to live that long to see the outcome.

“I am glad Fawkes came to you.” 

Harry did not know what else to say. He had hated himself sometimes. His parents and Sirius had died because of him. Hermione and Ron, and the Weasleys had become involved in the war because of him. 

He did not blame himself anymore. How could he? In that dark pit of Nurmengard, he had faced his greatest fear. He had only wanted to love, and to be loved. When he had chosen to kill to spare his lover more torment, the staggering weight of his decision had eclipsed everything else he had carried blame for. 

“I have offered Lupin a post,” Snape said then. “He may not accept. He has no love for me. He is the leader of a political cause and has the support of many.”

“Why did you offer him a post then?” Harry asked, curious.

“He was a good teacher,” Snape said, and he managed to make it sound only sour instead of bitter. 

Harry smiled and shook his head. “As long as you aren’t uncomfortable,“ he said seriously. “Voldemort believes in you. You don’t need to make grand concessions if you don’t want to. Remus is a good teacher but it won’t be very helpful if you feel haunted and paranoid each time you see him in the school corridors. If that is going to be the case, don’t do it.”

—-

The shadows slunk across the floor to swallow Harry. The candles stayed resolute. The moon crept through the clouds to shine its ghostly light on the statue of the Virgin. Harry had never prayed before. Yet, all the same, as he stood there, he heard the echoes of Hail Marys and Ave Marias from the past resound in the chapel. He remembered Dudley’s tales of people possessed by the devil falling into epileptic fits inside churches. He was a horcrux and yet he stood unharmed. 

He sensed Voldemort before he saw him. When the man stood at the threshold of the chapel, clad in the rich robes that he had once worn to the Christmas party to charm Fudge before Grindelwald’s invasion, Harry wondered if the heavens might smite him where he stood, for wasn’t he defiling sacred ground? 

Voldemort crossed the threshold and walked towards Harry. The ground did not quake, the skies did not unleash a God’s wrath, the earth moved around the sun, and the moon around the earth. In the southern hemisphere, men tilled the fields and women bustled about cooking. Here, men returned home from work and mothers put their babes to bed with sweet nursery tales. 

“You did not let Severus spirit you away.” 

“I am not afraid of you,” Harry said truthfully. He had no shields to protect him. 

“I was raised a Catholic,” Voldemort said, walking to the Virgin’s pedestal and touching the rosary beads at her feet. His fingers did not come away burned. 

Music started slowly, from the grand organ. It was a lament, of someone abandoned. Harry could not place it. 

“My sighs, my tears, cannot be counted,” Voldemort whispered, placing the rosary beads back at the feet of the Virgin. “When I daily encountered despair, and my anguish did not fade, ah! then the pain must have already built the road to death for me. I called in vain, and in my weeping no comfort came.”

The music wept too, for him, and Harry was also crying. He saw in his mind, as clear as day, a spirit wandering restless in the forests of Albania, hunted and frightened, seeking death and not dying, mourning a beloved and unable to have respite. There was in his mind a young boy too, in a cupboard, begging for scraps of food and love. 

“I ended the status quo so that we can live. We have borne cross and crown, alone, for a very long time,” Voldemort said fervently, his eyes mad and alien in the light of the thousand candles, his voice strong and fierce against the crash of the music. Harry believed him, and he wondered if he was mad too. 

“How many did you kill?” 

“Six,” Voldemort replied. “It was necessary to establish balance. You didn’t know any of them.” 

“No more,” Harry said, and it was half a plea and half a command.

“Nevermore,” Voldemort said solemnly. “Nevermore, unless it threatens us.” 

What did that mean? What did Voldemort consider a threat? Was it the best Harry could hope for? He did not know. He was tired. 

Voldemort flooded their bond with what Harry understood as love. Was Hermione right? Did he even know what being loved meant? Did that matter? It was love to him and it was enough. The music mellowed into gentle joyfulness. Invisible violins plucked strings deep inside Harry and he rose in jubilation.

Voices, pure and bright, sung to them then, kindling love and certainty in Harry’s heart from embers to flames. 

“Ach, wie lang, ach, lange  
ist dem Herzen bange  
und verlangt nach dir!  
Gottes Lamm, mein Bräutigam,  
Außer dir soll mir auf Erden  
nichts sonst Liebers werden.”

German. Wagner or Beethoven. Harry only knew those names and he had Hermione to thank for that. 

“Wagner?”

“Bach,” Voldemort told him gently. “How long, how long, has my heart suffered for you, longed for you. God’s lamb, my bridegroom, besides you on earth, nothing shall be dearer to me.” 

And when Voldemort knelt before him and kissed his palms, one after the other, Harry was crying and smiling, and all their pieces fell into place. He fell to his knees too, and took the man into his arms, for a long and gentle kiss. Voldemort’s hands traced the runes on Harry’s neck, and the scar on his forehead, and Harry’s eyes were greedily drinking in the love so raw on Voldemort’s face. 

“Would you like to return to Britain?” 

“No, this is my home now,” Harry said quietly.

His place was in France, where he wanted to rebuild their home on the land near the village of Verzenay. He wanted to attend the Sorbonne and to spend the rest of his life in what manner of peace he could find. 

“Would you like to mark me?” 

“No,” Harry replied, certain and unwavering. What need had he to mark a man who had already been willing to give up life and magic to save him? 

“Would you like to ask promises of me?” 

Snape had said that it all came down to how much Voldemort valued their love, to how much Voldemort valued his self-control and sanity. Harry had seen his lover pull off extraordinary feats of courage and brilliance, in circumstances dire, without losing his self-possession or rationality. No promise would bind Voldemort greater than his own desire to stay sane.

“No,” Harry said, for the third time, and when he kissed Voldemort, there was only love left between them.

The vows of union that Harry knew had a partner saying yes thrice to the questions posed by the officiant. They had come together with no spoken thrice. It was appropriate for them, wasn’t it? Harry wondered. Then Voldemort sighed into their kiss and moved away. There was a lightness to his steps that Harry had not seen before. Harry was grinning and he could not stop, and his face hurt from the wideness of his grin. 

“Come back here,” he said gently. “I want to kiss you again.” 

Only the statues and the candles stood witness. There, under a sacred dome, they were one and free, having extinguished their battles and causes, leaving all that there had been.

——

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bach cantatas - Voldemort is referring to the Jubilate 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading and for your patience! It has taken me much longer than I had initially foreseen to finish this. I apologise! I hope to finish it up in a few days.


	40. Acheron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry tries living, hunting for truffles and drinking ouzo on sailboats. Life interrupts.

“The world, and everything in it, moves. Even seemingly stationary objects, like a roadway, moves with the Earth’s rotation, the Earth’s orbit about the sun, and the sun’s orbit about the Milky Way galaxy, and the migration of the Milky Way relative to the other galaxies.” 

Voldemort had taken to reading Harry’s textbooks. He had also taken to solving the problems, becoming near obsessed with trying to find solutions before Harry found them. Harry envied Voldemort’s sound grasp of fundamentals, since he was grappling with them yet. At the same time, he liked Voldemort’s way of explaining concepts in a simple, intuitive manner without all the frills and laces that his professors favoured. He was sure that he would be still struggling with the moment of inertia of a cylinder if not for Voldemort’s explanation, where he had started with a sphere, and then deformed it into cylinders, and then into frustums. 

“I see that you finished the sixth problem,” Voldemort commented, rifling through the papers on Harry’s desk. “Faster than I had expected.”

“I get better everyday,” Harry said wryly, taking his spectacles off and then rubbing his tired eyes. 

He had forgotten how education was bad for his sleep. It must be why Hermione liked the pursuit. She liked suffering for knowledge. 

Harry preferred siphoning his lessons directly from Voldemort’s teaching, though he was trying hard to pay attention in classes and to work through his homework all by himself. He spent his evenings in a little cafe across the chapel of Saint Ursule, feverishly studying by the lamplight. He returned home by eight on most days, right about when Voldemort returned from Britain. They had developed a routine of bathing together, and then taking dinner together, slipping in and out of conversation about their day in between bites and sips, before retiring.

He preferred not to work at home, but Voldemort sometimes brought scrolls with him and worked from his blanket fort on their large bed. On such days, Harry joined him and read Halliday until he fell asleep. He exhaled. Maybe one day soon, he would have to tell Voldemort to stop bringing scrolls home. Britain was hardly going anywhere in the span of a few hours. 

They did not speak about Britain. Voldemort was willing to bring news, but Harry had no desire to listen. He had his physics and calculus, his beets in the garden, his kestrel flying wild, and his peace bought with denial and pain. He had no desire to give any of that up. He dutifully answered letters from Snape and McGonagall, from Hermione and Remus, from Hagrid, and from Molly. He did not go out of his way to correspond. 

Hermione had met him a few times at the university. He had enjoyed showing off to her, even impressing her twice with his knowledge of the history of the institution. However, Apparating across the Channel was quite tiring for her so her visits were limited. Harry wondered how Voldemort did it everyday. He had asked, and Voldemort had explained that in the same way some swimmers traverse greater lengths of water with relatively little effort, it was all in the technique. There had been a scientific explanation for it too, though the details had not made sense to Harry at the time. 

He lived his life in semesters, and spent his summers in the wilds of Verzenay, hunting and fishing. He liked taking the pigs to look in the deep woods for truffles. It was hard work. While Harry was not overly fond of the smell or the flavour, Voldemort’s orgasmic sighs when Clara prepared them made up for the effort. 

Sometimes, Voldemort tired of the rusticity of it all, and dragged him to the South, where there were tourists running amok on the beaches. Voldemort knew the quieter ones though, and he was keen to put Harry to good use on little sailboats on the calm Mediterranean just as he was keen to get Harry drunk on cheap ouzo he had ways of obtaining in little chalets from unsuspecting old ladies he could charm with wit and flattery.

Once, it was absinthe, and they were both out of their heads on a sailboat with blazing, white sails, and the sex was surreal, though Harry privately considered it a miracle that they had not crashed the boat into the rocks. Voldemort’s tolerance of anise was poor, so Harry was fairly sure that the man remembered fairly nothing of their coastal expeditions. Sometimes, though, Harry had come to realise, it was best to let Voldemort hallucinate and rave on the wild, open seas. For all that it reminded him of a demented Ahab, Harry had become used to it. Instead of a pirate’s English, it was high Latin, but Harry had become used to that too. He would sit by the rudder, keeping a wary eye on their course, and let the sun and the ouzo bake his brains into a lazy stupor. 

Voldemort was solicitous and considerate after the alcohol eased, wooing Harry to bouts of intensely satisfying sex, stoking him with lust shameless and all-encompassing. The Harry raised at Privet Drive by Petunia would have balked, the Harry who had been at Hogwarts would have been uncomfortable too, but France and isolation had removed many of his inhibitions, and he did not flail about in panic when faced with the prospect of having sex on a sailboat so close to the beaches and the large cruise liners. Besides, he was sure that Voldemort exercised recklessness only when fairly certain of his ability to conceal it. 

He sipped the last of his tea and looked up at Voldemort. His lover looked to be in fine form, fairly rippling with enthusiasm and good spirits. Between them, Clara and Harry had managed to hit upon a set of recipes that ensured Voldemort ate at least a proper meal a day. Harry took pride in the light layer of padding between skin and bone, making his lover look less like a skeleton animated. It had taken a lot of rhubarb and truffles, but it was worth it. 

Harry did not care too much to look at himself though. Peace and plenty had done his waist no favours. And the butter. Harry blamed the French and their butter for his fall. Voldemort liked it though, Harry could tell. Voldemort liked it when Harry’s weight pinned him down as they tussled on the bed. It was one of his quirks, Harry supposed, to prefer his lovers heavier than him. Harry never tired of the wildness in Voldemort’s eyes when he felt Harry’s weight on him, just as he exulted in the dexterity and grace that Voldemort used to his advantage when he wanted to have the upper hand. 

Harry had worried about his gradually browning skin, but Voldemort had dismissed it, saying gold and brown were quite different. Harry had then decided to stop worrying. He liked Voldemort’s white skin. Voldemort liked him tanned and brown.

It was all good, in the end. The Muggle politicians made a great deal of Britain’s closer collaboration with Europe, calling it a great success for everyone involved. Harry wondered why. He liked the Continent; the solitude and the sun. There was no longing to return to a land that had taken so much from him. Hermione often warned him that it was unhealthy to isolate himself from everyone. He did not agree. What was there to return to? Only memories. Here, though, here was a life he had carefully built with his lover. 

Then, right then, Voldemort was watching him. 

Harry’s tiredness retreated and a smile rose easily to his mouth. Voldemort’s eyes shone in approbation and he offered his hand to Harry. 

“Pour toujours et a jamais,” Harry said cheekily, pressing a soft kiss to the hand, earning a surprised laugh from Voldemort. 

Oh, the man responded so beautifully to Harry’s broken French. And Harry was improving. Who knew that a language could elicit such reactions? Harry had strong motivations to learn. He grinned as Voldemort tried to will himself back into composure, back to that place of control he was comfortable with. Not wanting to yield his advantage, Harry rose to his feet and placed his hands on Voldemort’s waist, his hold tight enough to catch that shudder through his lover’s body. 

“You are primed for me,” Harry said, moving to kiss the man, and then swooping to worry the jugular vein standing prominent against the pale skin. Hands came to his shoulders, gripping tight, seeking balance. 

Harry knew that once Voldemort was overwhelmed by sensation, he rarely had the will to compete. He persisted, kissing skin at random, nibbling, pressing forward, thrusting his thigh between Voldemort’s legs, against warm flesh that surged to him.

Afterwards, as they lay replete on the large bed Harry had had made by the artisans in the village, he sighed in contentment and drew circles on his lover’s back. 

There was silence and familiar magic. It occurred to Harry that he had often been restless at Hogwarts because of the constant changes in the feel of magic. There was always the magic of the castle, unchanging and familiar, but there had also been the ebbs and flows of the students, and then during the war there had been the Aurors and the various high-ranking officials who had come to seek Dumbledore’s counsel. Harry had been used to a cupboard where there had been only his magic. Hogwarts and the Burrow had made him restless with the flux of magic residing in them. Here, though, here was peaceful, with his magic and Voldemort’s both as well-worn as a beloved pair of jeans. The two were very different, Harry could tell, but they co-existed without qualm. 

“I have to be up early,” Voldemort said. “Meetings. Lucius wants me to appease, but it wears on me so.” 

“The transition is still ongoing, then?” Harry asked. “It has been almost a year.”

“Thirteen months. I won’t drag you into it when you have already expressed your disinclination to be involved,” Voldemort said sleepily, reaching out for their mass of blankets and drawing them over their chilled bodies. 

Was Voldemort refusing to delegate? Harry could well imagine that. 

“Lucius Malfoy has done a great deal for you,” Harry said cautiously, remembering how the man had looked at Voldemort when they had been standing by the gravestones. 

“He is a strange one,” Voldemort replied. “I have known him all his life, from when he was a babe in his mother’s arms. He has his own agenda, always, but he also safeguards those who come to his care. I cannot say that I trust him, but I cannot say that I mistrust him either.” 

Harry wanted to scoff at that, to tell Voldemort that clearly Malfoy was worthy of trust. Then he hesitated, remembering how Lucius had palmed off the diary on a little girl, remembering how Dobby had cringed when speaking of his master. He did not say anything. He had been wrong about Flitwick. Why would he try to advise Voldemort on the matter of a man he had barely a handful of conversations with? Voldemort was comfortable living with intrigue and the constant threat of betrayal. It was wiser to be paranoid, for a man in his place. 

—-

He was scurrying back from his last class of the day to the Apparating point at Cluny. He joined the throng making their way through the Jardin du Luxembourg, coming from the Pantheon. 

The Latin Quarter was lively that night. Oh, it was Friday! He had forgotten. Voldemort tended to work through the week. It was yet another unhealthy habit that Harry needed to slowly wean him away from. He had become a proper Frenchman, defending as sacred his weekends and holidays. Voldemort did not comprehend any of it. In fact, Harry was sure that truffles and coffee were the extent of Voldemort’s immersion in the French culture. 

There was a flower-girl selling bouquets in front of the Hotel Cluny Sorbonne. 

“Fleurs pour votre dame!” she called out. 

Oh, well, there was no dame at home, but he made his way to her nonetheless. 

Voldemort did not begrudge him the occasional gesture of soppy romance. He was usually gracious about all of that. Harry selected a bouquet of yellow Spanish brooms, red poppies and white jonquils. While Voldemort’s knowledge of botany was sparse, he had a strong sense of what a plant’s tale of evolution might be, and he could often regale Harry with stories old and new where the flowers had been referenced. Even if these were flowers unloved by writers, they would brighten up Voldemort’s desk, which had slowly turned into a mass of scrolls and maps over the week. Harry sighed as he contemplated that mess. Disorganisation was too light a word to describe it. Voldemort claimed that there was a structure, but Harry was yet to see it. He smiled to himself as he walked towards the station at Cluny, with his flowers in hand. 

There was a violinist in the corner, playing something that Harry had heard before. It was Bebop, that much he could identify. Maybe it was from one of those ancient records Petunia had been fond of playing over and over again when Vernon was away on business. The violinist began singing then, badly.

“Out cattin’ that satin doll!  
Baby, shall we go out skippin?  
Careful, amigo, you are flippin’,  
speaks Latin, that satin doll.” 

Oh, it had been one of Petunia’s favourites. For all that she had loathed anything that was not suburban and British, her tastes in music had been eclectic compared to Vernon’s. Harry wondered if Lily and Petunia had played dress-up before their mirrors while listening to this song. 

Then the violinist screamed and choked, and fell to the ground, clutching at their chest. Many people were falling all around, and Harry reached for his wand in panic, and his shield charm was rising around him instinctively. 

“Drop to your knees!” Someone shouted.

Harry obeyed, like the rest of them, and all they saw were men wearing masks and bearing large rifles the likes of which he had only seen before in films. They were saying something about Israel and Palestine, and it made no sense to Harry, and then they shouted in a language Harry did not know before shooting at random into the frightened crowd that tried to scatter away. 

Pain exploded in his left kneecap and Harry remembered that Grindelwald had fallen because of bullets and how futile a shield charm had been against them. He tried to Apparate but his mind was full of panic. Birds were crying above, flying away to the tops of the Pantheon. The flower girl was dead with her baskets strewn about her. 

“They have bombs!” A tourist shouted. “Run!” 

His shield charm held a while against the inferno, and he knew it would fail in scant moments, so he poured all the love he could dredge up in the face of fear into the bond. He hoped that love was enough to keep Voldemort safe and sane.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He did not dream of blood and a bouquet of jonquils, poppies and tulips. 

He dreamed of a dock-yard, smelly and foul. There was filth everywhere, snow on the ground, choirs singing of the Saviour's birth in the far distance, and dour-looking bobbies walking their beat, paying no attention to the street-corners where lay collapsed so many young boys, wan and in rags, sleeping off whatever drink or drugs they had poured into their bodies. 

He was walking, purposefully, towards a pub that was dimly lit. The neon lights that marked its name were flickering in and out. He opened the door and felt a familiar sense of sleaziness overcome him. There was a sole jazz saxophonist on the grimy dais, and a few belly-dancers past their prime, jiggling their wares to the jeers and the hoots of the drunken men that watched them. They were dancing on pennies and pounds. He knew the routine well enough. 

The barkeeper was a silent, grim-faced man. He reminded him of Cygnus. Cygnus had died in a raid twenty-five years ago. They had only found his fingers. Druella had been inconsolable. She had been broken enough to come to him, to pound her frail arms against his chest, demanding that he bring her husband back. He had been too overwhelmed, because she had reminded him of Abraxas so much, and he could only murmur ‘There, There’, and promised vengeance of a gory nature. She had collapsed against him, a spent mass of tears and misery. She had gotten to her knees then, and begged him to ensure that Bella stayed alive. He promised her that. 

Druella was dead, but he still kept an eye on Bella Black, even if a death-wish was all that drove that one. Harry had asked him so often why he liked Bella. How could he have explained any of it to him? 

“A room for the night,” he told the barkeep, placing thirty pounds on the grimy counter.

He had planned to ask Lucius about the bank. He had let Abraxas manage all that, and he wondered if Lucius had taken that over afterwards. He was living off the Muggle money that Ralph had given back when they had been lovers parting. He did not have many needs, but he had thought to understand the situation better, because Harry would have liked that peace of mind. Harry had cared about all that, even if he pretended he had not. He had liked the finer offerings of life; well-stocked kitchens and a well-furnished home. Perhaps it had been a consequence of his aunt’s penny-pinching and incessant worrying about finances. 

One of the belly-dancers strutted over to him, taking care to swing her hips just so. She had been a beautiful woman once, he could tell. Time and alcohol had ravaged that. He wondered why his mother had not resorted to prostitution to support them. She had chosen to die and leave him behind. 

He shook his head and dismissed her. He was here for something else. He saw his target in the corner of the room, smoking and drinking. He did not prefer broody men, but he was only looking for satisfying his need to stop thinking, to stop fretting, to break away from what his life had come down to. 

He walked over to the man and asked casually, “Light one for me.” 

His target was a man in his early thirties, with greying hair and wrinkles at the corners of his bright, blue eyes. Tall and stocky. Well-dressed. He could tell that the man was well-to-do, holding a high-paying, stressful job. Had come for the women, for sleazing down. No matter. Very few men had been able to resist this form, which was the only favour that had come from his father’s genetics. Harry had been uncomfortable though. For some deuced reason, Harry had liked his unnatural, magic-wrought form better.

The man fished a cigarette-holder out of his pocket and took one. He weighed his options: the diseased women past their prime on the stage or a man that was exceptionally handsome. He bent forward, with a smirk at the corners of his mouth, and placed the cigarette right between his lips. 

“You don’t look like a smoker,” the man said. His accent was posh. Likely Eton. 

“You don’t look like a queer either,” he replied. “You are going to fuck me hard nevertheless. I have a room upstairs.”

The man’s eyes darkened in lust and surprise. Ah, hadn’t expected him to be that direct? Well, he had no time to waste here. He needed to leave quickly. His form was not unfamiliar and his current status in Britain was a heavily publicised one. While those who had followed him for years would not bat an eye at his depravities, Lucius would not approve of the ruckus that would be caused by the press if they sniffed out what he did in his spare time, especially given that he had likely taken their beloved Harry and made a sex-slave out of their hero. The public did not know that Harry had been a vegetable for two years. They would blame that on him, if they did, not that he cared.

The man followed him up the stairs, and he could feel his eyes roving over his body. He had forgotten what it was like to be fiercely lusted over. It woke something deep and primal in him. He yearned for a touch, for a whisper in his ear, for a companion if only for the night. 

The room was musty and the sheets looked as if they had not been changed in years. The number of blotters and needles strewn across the room made him wonder if this room had seen enough drugs to send the entire Russian Army high. Oh, how he remembered Harry’s expression of childlike wonder when he had cast an ultra-violet Lumos to show Harry LSD. 

His companion scrunched his nose in upper-class disgust. He was amused by that. 

“Against the wall suits me just fine,” he offered. He did not want the man to leave in revulsion because of his snobbish, germaphobic nature. A round of buggery would lower the man’s revulsion and then they could take to the bed. 

“Just when I thought you couldn’t surprise me more,” the man said, laughing and shaking his head. “Rob.” 

He shrugged. Names did not matter. 

“I am clean. Are you?” 

Rob nodded. Legilimency, light and noninvasive, told him as much. Good. He did so despise rubbers. 

He started taking off his clothes, but Rob came to him and stayed his hands. 

“Let me.” 

That made it closer to what lovers did, but he shrugged in acceptance. In for some, in for all. It was a luxurious experience, one that he had not hoped to have again, to stand there as Rob kissed his skin and removed each article of clothing with murmurs of appreciation. When Rob got to his knees to strip down his trousers, he had to ask.

“Have you fucked a man before?” 

“I went to Eton.” 

Well, that explained Rob’s comfort with the male body. He relaxed into the firm, gentle touches. It was different from what he had sought, but it was pleasing nonetheless. It was unlike how Harry’s touch had been, holding none of that warmth in the fingers, and he considered himself lucky. 

“Don’t get out much, do you?” Rob asked good-naturedly, as he rose to his full height and thumbed the hollows of his neck bone in exploration. Ah, yes, previous lovers had also liked that part of his body. “Pale from head to toes.” 

He was about to curtly reply, to demand more action, when Rob swooped in, eyes hungry and full of want, to grip him by the shoulders, to turn him against the sorry wall-paper that was stained and peeling off. He had forgotten how wild and repressed a toff could be. It was passion unleashed after years of not having an outlet, he could tell, as he moaned in pain and ecstasy, as Rob pounded him with savagery more associated with Neanderthals than men. It was too dry, too fast, too much, all at once. He threw his head back, yielding, exulting, desperate, wanting more, wanting enough to wipe off the last two years from his mind, wanting to forget what awaited him later, that cold, large bed of theirs with Harry’s still, pale form in the middle. He would take this instead, this heat and filth and depravity, as he surrendered his mind to body, as he surrendered body to another.

The Luftwaffe had come with the sirens. They bombed the docks and the parks, the palaces and the concert halls. So many were killed and orphaned. He had wondered about his father, because all fathers had been called as soldiers in that war. Had that man died in the fields of France? The bomb sirens blared all night long, and the bunkers had been crammed full of frightened men and women, and Churchill had promised them salvation. He had been there, with his wand in his reach, with magic bursting at his fingertips, and yet he had been as vulnerable and frightened as any of the Muggles. It was then that he realised that segregation was the only path forward. As a wizard, he could not survive the Muggle wars by living in their world. 

The terrorists who had bombed La Sorbonne had been associated to factions involved in the strife between Israel and Palestine. He did not know what their cause had been. 

What Muggles went to war for changed every few years. Modern warfare in the Muggle world involved prolonged terrorism and violence perpetrated on civilians. In a way, it was more unpredictable and dangerous than the great war he had lived through, because there had been no declaration of war, there were no armies fighting on bloody fields, and instead it was the average man going about his mundane day that paid the toll. Harry had been one of those victims. 

And his shields fell as he yielded to the sorrow he had staved off for months, to the futility of his wait, as the last dregs of stubbornness and patience he had clung to fell away, and yawning before him was only a chasm of nothingness. 

It had been easier the first time around, when he had watched Abraxas die, because in that moment he had known they would not be together until he fell, and how he had tried to fall! He had sought to sow and reap destruction, only it had not worked, and it had all come around to crash on his head, at Godric’s Hollow, and he had finally started to rebuild when Harry had fallen to a Muggle terrorist attack. He had kept his hopes high and his stoicism as a shield each time Severus had given him bad news, he had faithfully cared for Harry everyday for the last two years, seeing to every need of that comatose body, convincing himself that the spark would return to his lover’s eyes. 

He needed to forget all of it, and Rob gave him the stimulus to be overwhelmed until he had no choice but to be mindless and free, if only until he spent. He needed to forget the vision that haunted his nightmares, of rushing to Sorbonne to find Harry the only living thing amidst that tapestry of vileness that humanity had fallen to. He had never been more thankful to Albus Dumbledore, for the shield charm that he had taught Harry. It had sufficed, barely, to keep Harry from the worst of the explosion, but the blood-loss from the bullets had damaged something in his brain. He needed to forget.

It had all started with Catullus. There he was, on Christmas eve, while carols sung of Old King Wenceslas outside, getting fucked by a stranger. Love had driven him to this, to hate himself for what he needed to stay grounded. At least, his Balm in Gilead was easier to purchase than that of many other miserable souls.

Odi et amo, quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?  
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior. 

He had not realised that he had spoken aloud the couplet until Rob breathed in his ear, “Catullus? I hate and I love. Why do I do this, you ask? I don't know, but I feel it happening and I am torn apart. Ah, darling, why do you hate this? It is only pleasure, given freely. Please don’t tell me you are one of those repressed souls.” 

Harry had found his habit of lapsing into Latin endearing, he remembered. Harry had found it amusing that almost every one of his previous lovers had been well-educated toffs. Ah, Harry. What would Harry have said if he had seen this? Would he have only pity? Would he find a spark of amusement in the tragedy, that even in the sleaziest of pubs, he had managed to find himself a toff that knew Catullus? 

"Let go now," Rob ordered him, holding him tight against a broad chest, driving into him relentlessly, demanding, demanding, demanding surrender. He surrendered. 

When he fell, it was silently, suppressing sobs that clawed up his chest. Rob’s body was heavy over his, and he closed his eyes to compose himself. As his mind returned to stillness, he sensed a presence deep within.

—-

Harry was furious and sad. He heard the resounding clatter of the entrance doors clashing open. Voldemort had returned. Their minds were full of turbulence, their thoughts bleeding into each other's, a dissonance of sorrow etched bone-deep, physical pain, disbelief, and betrayal. 

The door to their bedroom, which had become Harry’s sickroom, opened tentatively, as if Voldemort feared what he would find inside, as if he feared he had hallucinated everything. 

Only, Harry was awake, and his eyes were fixed on the broken man before him. They held each other’s gaze for long moments, and Harry knew that he had forgiven. Two years. What price had his comatose state taken on Voldemort’s sanity? The man who faced him now was only a shadow of the man Harry had wished good morning to two years ago, before that ill-fated evening in the Latin Quarter of Paris. 

Harry tried to smile, though his facial muscles were numb and refused to cooperate. That made Voldemort stifle a sob and come rushing to him, only to fall onto his knees by the bed, to reach out his right hand and place it over Harry’s clasped hands. 

“Don’t go back,” Voldemort whispered hoarsely. “I shan’t be able to manage.” 

“Why would I go back if I can stay with you?” Harry replied, with great tenderness, painfully lifting his hands and cupping Voldemort’s face. 

Guilt wracked their bond then, and Voldemort’s shields must have been made askew by deep emotional turbulence for it to manifest so strongly. 

“Hey, it is all right,” Harry said, trying to steer away from what Voldemort had done. “I hope you still have my wand.” He tried to insert some levity into their situation. “After that, you really need to patch yourself up.” 

Voldemort looked haunted but he managed to scour together a smile for Harry’s sake. 

“Why don’t you take a bath and come to bed?” 

Voldemort looked reluctant to leave him. Harry grinned and said kindly, “I will just sit here and sing nonsensical nursery rhymes until then.“ 

So it was that Harry sang Humpty Dumpty forty-times. He did not care for the song at all, but he cared very much for the man his long coma had broken. He was going to fix all of that, somehow. Soon enough, he would drown Voldemort in love and affection until the man had forgotten the loneliness and the grief of the last two years.

When Harry felt Voldemort slipping into the bed beside him, he exerted himself to splay his left hand across his lover’s torso. It was uncomfortable, but Voldemort sighed as if it were a benediction. 

His dreams were horrifying. There was Abraxas getting torn apart by his horses, there was Harry himself broken and bloody, dying, surrounded by corpses and limbs, and he woke in panic to find Voldemort awake and staring at him. He reached out to place his hand against his partner’s chest and found it beating a rapid staccato. 

“Go back to sleep,’ Voldemort murmured, pushing away the blankets and rising. “I am off to make soap.”

Harry lay there afterwards, contemplating the best course of action. Voldemort slipped back into the room with his soap-making materials. Harry suppressed a sigh at the unwillingness of the man to even dare step away from him for a few hours. It would take time before the truth of Harry’s state sunk in.

Harry propped himself up slowly with a pillow and watched the man in the light of the many beeswax candles. 

“I won’t fall back into the coma,” he said quietly. 

“How can you know? You were almost dead, Harry,” Voldemort told him then. “You were there at the wrong time and it was a miracle that you did not die so that Muggles involved in strife on another continent could draw attention to their cause. Your shield charm held longer than it should have, wonder of wonders. You were dying from blood-loss and the Killing Curse would have been the most merciful words to leave my lips. I was fortunate, or perhaps you were unfortunate, that our blood and magic are so entwined.”

“Blood?” Harry asked curiously. “Your blood?” 

Things truly had come full circle then. 

“It was yours, once,” Voldemort said irritably. “My point stands. The Muggle world is self-destructing. We cannot venture out in it unless we have a death-wish.” 

“Terrorism and war are common to both worlds,” Harry said steadfastly. “Will you say that to venture out is foolish?” 

“As long as there are suicidal idiots believing propaganda out there, it is better to stay inside,” Voldemort replied. “I can promise you that the wizarding world will be free of them, and I will spend the rest of our lives ensuring that everyday. I cannot do anything about the Muggles.” 

“There will always be that random chance that someone will get through your best measures,” Harry said solemnly, stumbling out of the bed and coming to kneel clumsily before Voldemort, as Voldemort had once knelt before him in the Chapel of Saint Ursule. “I have a different proposition.” 

Voldemort frowned as he poured the lye carefully. Harry took care not to breath in the fumes.

“You said it would have been more merciful to let me die,” Harry pressed on, stumbling over his words. “You saved me though.” 

“Abraxas died before me. I had no desire to see you do the same,” Voldemort said with some asperity, though his gaze remained fixed on the cake of soap before him. 

Harry smiled sadly and said, “You are quite self-aware.”

“I did not wish to survive you,” Voldemort spat. “I did not wish to die. Ergo, you are alive.”

Did Voldemort feel guilty that he had not let Harry die? Harry remembered the state he had left Flitwick in. Was this fate's lesson? Yet, he had recovered. Flit wick had not. Did that mean anything? Was it simply Harry's luck? He suspected it had been the emotional disturbance leaking into his mind through their bond that had shaken him out of his state of coma.

“Severus told me that I should show you mercy, that I should ease your passing, that your choice would be death over the state you were in. I have always been selfish, and self-preserving,” Voldemort said dully. “We cannot all be heroes.”

“I am not one either,” Harry said frankly. “I have had time to think about what my fears are. I don’t fear dying. I am only afraid of living in a world without you.” 

“You would be free,” Voldemort pointed out.

“I prefer my happiness over my freedom then,” Harry said calmly. “And I wanted to present my proposition which solves this problem of ours.”

Voldemort did not look dubious. He merely looked careworn and broken by long seasons of despair. In that face, Harry saw the man who had stepped aside to let Abraxas marry and sire, the man who had watched Abraxas commit suicide, the man who had set aside the wreckage of his life to offer what was left to Eloise, and the broken spirit that had haunted the forests of Albania seeking death and an end, and the man who had let Harry tie him up when Harry had returned after that summer, the man for whom Harry had killed Wormtail, the man who had gone to Nurmengard willingly, and there was, superseding all of that, the man who had nursed him unflinchingly for two years, even when there had been no hope left about his recovery.

“I know the traditional vows mention until death does us apart,” Harry said quietly, reaching out and caressing the worry-worn brow of his lover. 

He hesitated, unsure how to suggest what he wanted to say. He was selfish. Having seen what separation had done to Voldemort, he had no wish to be on the other end of the story. It was important to say that. It was important to explain that he would not cope. 

“I don’t wish to survive you,” he said bluntly. 

“I don’t wish to survive you,” Voldemort said, as if admitting shameful. 

“Take care of that then,” Harry said gently. “I trust your magic.” 

“As you wish. We shall cross the River Acheron together, then?” Voldemort asked, sounding quite tired and overwhelmed. The bruises of teeth-marks and fingers on his skin stood out purple. He had not healed himself of the marks of his night of passion.

“Give me your wand,” Harry asked, wondering if his magic remained, if he could cast a simple spell to heal. There was no worry in him though. If the bond still held their minds together, something magical had been left untouched. 

Voldemort handed it over unquestioningly. Harry realised that he had not cast a spell with this wand before. Yet, it felt right in his hand, somehow. Was that so surprising? As Ollivander had been fond of saying, their wands were brothers. 

He cast the simplest of healing charms and watched the bruises fade. 

Voldemort looked surprised, saying, “I would have expected you to cast a Lumos or a Leviosa to test your magic.” 

“I wasn’t testing that,” Harry informed him. “I was healing you.” 

—-

Snape reacted in his typical manner when he was sent for. He overreacted. There were the dramatic flourishes, the long rants, and all the rest of the doom and gloom that Snape managed to portray each and every time he spoke with Harry. And there was an undercurrent of relief and disbelief underlying all of it. 

“I have been beleaguered, Potter. Beleaguered!” he exclaimed. “Your friends desired to know everyday twice about your health. I told them that you were recovering. Granger panicked as soon as she heard of the news on Muggle television about this bomb blast, and came running to me. She pestered me everyday to take her to you. I told her that I could not, that you were as safe as you could be, and that the moment you woke I would bring her the news. Even when you are comatose, you wreak havoc on me.” 

Harry was relieved that Snape had taken it on himself to keep his friends informed. They could not visit him. What purpose would that have served anyway? It was hardly as if he could have listened to them, or spoken to them. 

“Were you concerned about me, or about the fate of the wizarding world?” Harry teased him. 

Having to tip-toe around Voldemort’s shredded nerves had left Harry suffocated. He sensed that they were teetering close to a breakdown, and that Voldemort was striving his best to keep his emotional equilibrium each time he needed to go to Britain and leave Harry behind. Snape had been drafted in to watch over him on such occasions. Snape was less involved, and more able to find the humour in Harry’s plight. 

“He didn’t go off the rails,” Snape said seriously, making notes about Harry’s health as he examined Harry. “He held himself remarkably together, through the last two years. I cannot say that I expected that. Nor am I surprised, now that I think of it. His resilience is, after all, legendary. My concern was for him. He grew thinner and thinner, more and more distant with each passing day, and outside his pleasantries and orders, there was little liveliness to him.”

——

Bellatrix was his sole, voluntary visitor. The first time she had crossed the threshold, all a vision in red and green and black, reminding Harry of the Rocky Horror musical, with her lace and corset and high-heeled shoes, Harry had been sitting at the dining table, peeling oranges. He decided to never offer her an orange again, after she took one from him, and gnawed and spat away the peel. Juice streaked down her lips and Harry suspected most men would have been all over themselves in a bid to lick the sweet liquid right off her luscious skin. 

“Your sister won’t approve,” he told her. 

“My cousin would have,” she retorted. “Pity he is dead.”

She was not the most conscientious of guests for a convalescing man, but they made do. She would usually come late in the afternoon, and then sit with Harry for a few hours until Voldemort returned from Britain. Their conversations were awkward and unhealthy, but Harry had a policy of not taking anything she said too seriously. It worked, most of the time. 

“This house is different from how I remember it,” she said once, looking up from the screaming book of curses she had brought with her. Harry had found it telling that even her books screamed and clawed.

“Did you come here often?” 

“Sometimes, my mother brought us here during the holidays,” she said. “There was a finishing school for young ladies nearby. We took classes there during the summers.” 

It was difficult to imagine Bellatrix as a school-student in a finishing school for young ladies. Narcissa fit that picture well. 

“You must have hated it,” Harry said. 

“Cross your legs just so. Hold your teacup just so. I was fifteen when I begged the Dark Lord to let me join,” she said quietly. “I knew that I would massacre the stupid teachers at that finishing school if I had to return there one more time. Mother would not have approved.”

“You were fifteen?” Harry asked, aghast. Little wonder that all the horrors of a war-torn life had broken her. She had been a child soldier. 

“Spare me all that,” she said haughtily. “I am a Black. All of us had killed and fucked before fifteen…except Cissy. She was a late bloomer.”

And Andromeda. He did not want to break their truce by reminding her of her elder sister’s existence. How much of her statement was true? He thought of Sirius. Sirius had been good and brave. He had not killed before fifteen, Harry was sure. Sirius had been a handsome and extremely well-liked boy. Harry wondered if his godfather had had sex before fifteen. It was possible. Remus had said something about Sirius’s conquests once. 

“It was a long fight,” she remembered. “The Dark Lord had to convince Abraxas. He had to convince my parents. He had to convince everyone else. Nobody thought that a woman was fit to join an army, even if I could win a duel against any of them. Once I took the mark during the summer of that year, everyone mocked me saying that I must have slept with the Dark Lord to win his favour, to enter the ranks. I returned to school the following term and my cousin led the chorus that called me the Dark Lord’s whore. He believed it too. Pity that I didn’t let him live long enough to see what became of his precious godson.”

It had been a rumour that had been taken as the truth, even during Harry’s schooldays. They had believed, the press had believed, and even the teachers had believed that there had been something else to Bellatrix’s obsessive involvement in Voldemort’s cause. 

Harry wondered how she had dealt with the rumours. Hermione had been so upset when Rita had written about the doomed love triangle between Krum, Harry, and her. Knowing Bellatrix, the rumour-mongers must have lived to regret it. 

Voldemort had fought to bring her into the ranks, away from the traditional path of marriage and child-bearing. Little wonder that she had become fanatically devoted to him. 

“You should come to the New Year ball,” she said then. “He came to the first two balls alone. There were rumours about your ill-health, about how he was holding you a prisoner, about how you had left to start a new life in the Americas.”

“Snape said I look like death warmed over,” Harry told her wryly. 

“Perfect. You will match the Dark Lord very well indeed,” she said, and burst into a throaty, rowdy laugh. 

—-

He wrote long letters, to Hermione and Ron, to Hagrid and Professor McGonagall, to Arthur and Molly, and to Remus. He explained what had happened to him. He did not write anything of how Voldemort had nursed him. He wrote that he was recovering, and that he would be present at the New Year ball in a week. Frantic replies came soaring back, from everyone except Ron. Oh, Ron! He could be so stubborn. Harry had hoped that time would have eased his friend’s sense of betrayal. It would, he knew. Only, he had hoped that it would not take as many years as it was going to.

There was a small letter from Narcissa, on dainty, powdered paper, bearing him her well-wishes for a speedy recovery and her apology for her sister’s impromptu visits. That was nice of her. He sent her a polite reply, reassuring her that he was more than capable of dealing with her mad sister. 

—-

“May I come with you to the ball?” he asked Voldemort as they took dinner together. 

His appetite was little these days, but he made an effort to eat regularly, to make sure that Voldemort joined him. He had no idea what Voldemort had subsisted on during the last two years. The man was only skin painted over bones. 

They had begun the practise of taking long, slow walks together in the mornings. Voldemort seemed accustomed to solitude and Harry could tell that it overwhelmed him sometimes to engage in lengthy conversations. He would stop, occasionally, and look at Harry as if trying to ascertain if his eyes were lying to him. He would then touch Harry’s cheeks to reassure himself. Harry remained still and silent when that happened, drawing no attention to it. It was all right. It would take time. Time was what they had. 

He had to find them a housekeeper. Clara had died of a stroke, in her bed, peacefully, nine months after Harry had nearly died. Voldemort had not tried to find a new housekeeper. Harry had strongly associated Clara with their house. There was mourning lurking in him, but he compartmentalised, as always, to first focus on the living. 

Voldemort had fallen back to his old habits during Harry’s illness, drawing his books and wardrobe into their bedroom, effectively operating out of that room. 

Harry had started cooking for them. He had tired of Voldemort’s attempts at cheese and toast. He had tired of Voldemort’s idea of take-away, which consisted of fish and chips. He provided a grocery list each morning, and he cooked in the evenings while Voldemort watched him carefully, as if worried that stirring a soup the wrong way might make Harry shatter.

“You did not want to do anything with Britain,” Voldemort replied, dipping his bread in the soup absently. He had ceased eating a while ago. Harry needed to find that jar of truffle shavings Clara had stowed away in the pantry. 

“I will make an exception this year,” Harry told him. “I wish to accompany you. It is your birthday.” Then he hesitated. Maybe Voldemort truly preferred going alone. He summoned his courage and asked, “Did you wish to go alone?” 

That drew a wan smile and Voldemort asked, “What do you think my answer will be?” 

——

When he woke from the same nightmare again, sweating and panting, he reached out to grip Voldemort.

“Don’t fuss,” he was told sternly. 

Harry took a deep breath and made one of his notorious leaps of faith. He said boldly, “I am not going to fuss. I am going to fuck it right out of you.” 

That earned him a sharp exhalation of breath. Hope and guilt emerged mixed in their bond. 

“How many times did you go to sleazy pubs and get fucked?” 

“Twice,” Voldemort replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I am troubled by that. I have not been able to come up with a penance that you will be satisfied by.” 

And they were back to that Christmas Eve, in the aftermath of that party where Voldemort had fraternised with Fudge, and Harry had accused him of infidelity. Voldemort had lashed out cruelly, and when Harry had returned, bolstered by Dumbledore’s words, Voldemort had offered him penance. 

In La Sorbonne, the students had been fond of reading and discussing Proust. Harry had sometimes participated in those conversations. He was not a reader, but he liked hearing about stories from those who had read the books. He had been once Hermione’s favourite audience, due to his ability to listen to her for hours. 

“Even if all the woods are black, the sky is still blue,” he remembered. 

“Swann’s Way,” Voldemort said, a frown creasing his brow. “God have mercy on us. You have become a Parisian truly.” 

“I mean it, though,” Harry said quietly, bending to press a soft kiss to his lover’s lips. “I mean it very much. Ever since I woke, I have been living in sorrow as I watch you. Proust was right about that too. It is hard to bear the grief that I have caused. I have made so many vows to see our life mended. I only pray that it is not too late. It breaks me to see you so.”

Voldemort shrugged and lay down beside him. He said flatly, “Proust said that sometimes illumination comes to our rescue at the very moment when all seems lost; we have knocked at every door and they open on nothing until, at last, we stumble unconsciously against the only one through which we can enter the kingdom we have sought in vain a hundred years - and it opens. I am not certain that I believe his theory. Men are born into and die in misery everyday, everywhere. We are only as lucky as fate wants us to be, and some of us are luckier than the others.” 

“Well, you can either spend our night trying to out-Proust Proust, or you can have a barely nubile, young man’s cock stuffed deep inside you.” 

Voldemort laughed in surprise, and it was his first laugh Harry had heard after waking. So relieved, he bent to kiss the man. There were a few moments of fumbling, as they strove to perfect their contact, and then muscle memory took over, as they remembered their old dances of skin and touch. There were new scars on Harry's body, and to him they seemed countless, but Voldemort's fingers skittered over each as if naming them, as if counting them, as if reminding them both how close Harry had come to dying. Harry gripped the roving hands and pulled them up high above, against the headboard. 

The coma had certainly sapped the youth out of Harry, he thought, as he fucked his lover with deep, long strokes. His stamina had increased and he was quite smug about the languorous bout of sex it was turning into, despite Voldemort playing his usual tricks and striving to send Harry crashing into orgasm first. He opened his mind wide, and took a deep breath to focus on his emotions; there was pain and grief and regret, there was hope and determination to rebuild, and there was concern for his lover overriding all else. 

When Voldemort lapsed into Latin, fervent and babbling, Harry thrust faster and deeper, surrendering control to nature. 

And later, Harry asked him softly, “Are we on Catullus still?” 

“I think I have traversed to Sonnet Fifty Eight, to serfdom at my lover's beck and call, mastered by his heart,” Voldemort replied dryly, with a sparkle of self-effacing humour finally birthing in his eyes. “Luckily, for me, you are Harry, our hero, so full of grace.” 

——

He was dressed in a plain set of black robes that he had unearthed in his wardrobe. They hung loosely on his frame. He resolved to find that housekeeper soon. 

He did the rounds alone. First he had met Hermione. She had come to him running, and he had opened his arms to catch her. 

“Oh, Harry!” she exclaimed, worried and happy. “I am so relieved to see you finally. You were the only survivor.” 

“You should not underestimate my luck!” he chided her, taking a step back to look at her properly. She had filled out, and there was maturity and self-confidence sitting high on her brow. He grinned and asked, “Unspeakables?” 

“No, I teach Charms at Hogwarts,” she said, her smile dimming. Flitwick. 

“I bet my Shield Charms are still better than yours!” he dared her, wanting to pull them away from the past. 

She laughed brightly, saying, “I am not foolish to take you on that bet, Harry. Yours held against a bomb.” 

“I am glad that you are well,” he told her gently. 

There was no wedding ring adorning her right hand. She must have noticed his glance, because she said, “It was not the right time. I needed to think. So did he. We needed to find ourselves before we could find each other.”

“How is he?” 

“He did not come. You know how he can be.” She shrugged. “He worried so about you, and made me haunt Snape everyday. I would have done that anyway. He will come around, Harry.”

“I know,” Harry said frankly. “I miss him, but I understand. I will be very grateful when he decides to speak to me again.”

“Enough about that stubborn man!” she exclaimed. “Come, now, with me. Remus wants to see you!” 

So they went to Remus. Remus was relieved to see him. Harry welcomed the warm embrace. There was still betrayal deep in Remus’s gaze. He had put that aside to celebrate Harry’s recovery. Harry was glad for that. Remus was a Minister now in the coalition government they had put together. 

“It is difficult,” Remus admitted. “It is less difficult than I had expected it to be, nonetheless. There is more sanity than we had dared hope for.” He sighed. “I expect that it is equally difficult for them. They had not planned to share power. I wonder why they did.” 

“He is stabilising the country,” Hermione said easily. “He needs to. He has no succession plans drawn up, as far as we know. He needs to make sure that it won’t all go to hell as soon as he steps away. It is one of the most common failure modes of authoritarian or dictatorial governments, as it once was for a monarchy. He is trying to circumvent that, by making sure that he has grassroots support in the coming generation.”

“Harry!” It was Professor McGonagall. In her tow came Arthur Weasley. Arthur hugged him tightly, while Professor McGonagall bestowed a bright smile on him. 

“Molly expects to see you at home soon,” Arthur told him sternly. 

“I will be there,” Harry promised. “I will be there as soon as I have my clean bill of health from Snape.” 

“Professor Snape, Harry,” Professor McGonagall reprimanded him.

“Good to see you too, Professor,” Harry said cheekily, earning a disapproving glare from her, though it was belied by the warmth of her smile. 

“Come to Hogwarts soon. Miss Granger has made many changes.”

“Improvements!” Hermione exclaimed. 

“Changes,” Professor McGonagall said mildly. 

“I will come soon,” Harry said. He wanted to see Hagrid. 

There were couples pouring onto the floor as the music started. Harry looked across the crowd at Voldemort, who was in deep conversation with Rufus Scrimgeour. 

“Dance with me, Hermione?” Arthur asked then. “Since Ron and Molly deserted us today, we should make the best of it!”

She grinned and accepted. 

Harry stood there with Remus and Minerva, chatting about the Ministry and Hogwarts. Then Percy Weasley came by, and greeted Harry enthusiastically, before starting up a long-winded conversation with Remus about import tariffs. 

“They are in the Ministry now,” Professor McGonagall said, steering Harry away. “I must say that the government has a way of dampening one’s ardour.” 

Harry laughed at that remark. It was true, wasn’t it? 

Narcissa came to them then and he took a wary step back at the glint of mischief in her eyes. 

“What is it?” he asked abruptly, forgetting everything he had learned from Dumbledore about treating women courteously. 

“Bella moons over the Dark Lord so,” she said tartly. “I dare not imagine how she might react if he were to ask for a dance.” 

“No, no, that won’t lead to anything proper and good,” Harry said firmly, though his grin gave him away. 

As repulsive as it was to think of Bellatrix Lestrange mooning over Voldemort, he preferred it somehow to thinking about Sirius and her mooning over each other. That had been unholy, and that had been the truth. 

Harry looked over to where Voldemort was standing, speaking with Rufus Scrimgeour and a few Ministry officials. Bellatrix was standing with Lucius, neither of them looking too pleased by that arrangement. Harry wondered what had spurred that. They must have some reason. Neither of them were particularly likely to seek each other’s company.

“I dare you,” Narcissa whispered. 

“Mrs. Malfoy!” Harry said, laughing, thinking that she had something of Sirius in her after all. 

“You are a married man now,” she coaxed him, looking at the circlet of gold around his ring finger. “Marriage buys little liberties.” 

Harry glanced at the diamonds about her neck. More than mere little liberties, he guessed. Voldemort had a ring that matched his, and they wore the rings as a commitment to die together, instead of a commitment to live together. One did not preclude the other, so maybe it qualified as a marriage ring too. There was magic in the rings, though it was not traditional spells of fertility and attraction. The magic in their rings were tied to their lives, to grant them death when their partner fell. Voldemort had remarked dryly that it was untested magic, since they could hardly test it. Harry believed it would work as intended. Voldemort had crafted it after all.

“He is a fine dancer,” Minerva McGonagall cut in then. “I have seen him dance with Abraxas Malfoy in the Slytherin Common Room.”

“What were you doing there?” Harry asked curiously. 

“You think you were the first to brew Polyjuice and sneak in there?” she asked, laughing. Harry grinned at her, full of affection, trying to imagine her as a school-girl and failing. How odd it must have been for Dumbledore and Slughorn to receive their old students as colleagues!

Narcissa said reminiscently, “I have seen him dancing only a few times before, with Lucius’s mother. I have heard tales of him dancing with Abraxas at their grand Christmas feasts.”

Harry could imagine that easily. Abraxas must have taught Riddle to dance. Abraxas had been a patient teacher and Riddle had been a quick study. They must have been on equal footing soon enough, and Harry imagined that they had taken delight in their dancing, a measure of intimacy that they had at a time when they had denied themselves more passionate physical involvement. Riddle must have thrilled in dancing with Abraxas in the Common Room, and then later at the Christmas feast, because it meant that he had power enough to buy the silence of their watchers. 

Narcissa continued, “Their…kind had not been looked upon favourably in those days. His otherness ceased our worrying about this peculiarity.”

Abraxas had played the long game, hadn’t he? He had waited until he had come into his fortune, until Riddle had amassed enough power, before he had embarked on their relationship. He had not taken any chances with Riddle’s success. By waiting for the right time, he had not entertained any power-struggles that may have come about because of the homophobia. 

Narcissa’s smile faded to its usual smallness, McGonagall turned expressionless, and Harry looked up to see Voldemort standing before him. 

“Bellatrix Lestrange would like to dance with you,” Harry said sweetly. 

“Can’t I make her a Minister for something instead?” Voldemort parried. “Her heels would make mincemeat of my feet.” 

Harry bit his lips to stifle his grin. Minerva McGonagall’s sternness eased slightly. Narcissa dared to giggle, before saying, “It has been her heart’s desire since she was old enough to desire anything.” 

“I distinctly recall that her heart’s desire was Sirius Black. However, far be it from me to deny her,” Voldemort replied, bowing to the ladies and leaving. 

“Albus used to bow out like that,” McGonagall reminisced. “How odd.”

Harry shook his head. Dumbledore and Voldemort had a great deal in common, though neither would have cared to hear that. 

The music started up again and Voldemort took to the floor with Bellatrix. Dancers cleared out, keen as they were to avoid proximity to Voldemort. She was as clumsy as Harry had never seen her before, reminding him of Neville in his First Year. How was Neville faring? He wondered. He needed to ask Hermione. Bellatrix strove hard to focus on her partner’s steps, and failed miserably. So many of the onlookers looked amused. After all, she had only earned the hate of most everyone in their world. Harry felt bad for her, but could not help a grin as he saw Voldemort leaning over to whisper in her ear. He was fairly sure that Voldemort would see them through, even if that required a careful application of the Imperius Curse here and there. 

“She is a good dancer,” Narcissa said uncertainly, no doubt worried for her sister. Harry still did not understand why she loved Bellatrix while she held no affection for Andromeda. 

Bellatrix kept her eyes on her partner, ignoring the crowd. That helped steady her. Voldemort increased their pace slowly, in consonance with the music. Once she had overcome her nervousness, Harry had to admit that Bellatrix was a good dancer. It did not surprise him. He had seen her duel. He was amused by the respectable distance between them. The music was for a waltz, but neither of them moved to surer grips or a smaller gap. It made him think about the first time he had dared touch Voldemort beneath the waist. How frightened had he been! 

“Minerva, Narcissa, is Potter bothering you?” Snape said, joining them and glaring at Harry.

“You can just ask for my company if you want it,” Harry said easily. 

McGonagall laughed and said she was going to speak with Madam Hooch. Narcissa went across to her husband.

“Bellatrix’s heart might give out and we will be rid of her finally,” Snape muttered. 

“I think she will outlive us all,” Harry replied. “She lasted Azkaban and Grindelwald both.” 

“And Black.”

“And Sirius, yes,” Harry said sadly. 

Had Sirius lost to her because of her skill or because he had loved her? Harry did not know and it kept him up some nights. 

Snape must have sensed where his thoughts where, because he said curtly, “Black did not put anything else over his determination to keep you safe, Potter.” 

That made Harry wonder, as it always did, how selfish he was to have chosen his current life over one of struggle, over one of fighting Voldemort. What cause had he now to fight Voldemort?

The song ended and Voldemort relinquished Bellatrix to her waiting husband. Harry had not seen the man before. He seemed like a dour sort of man. Very Russian. 

“Is her husband Russian?” he asked Snape. 

“Only inbred, I am afraid,” Snape said maliciously. Harry supposed that it had been one of the sources of Snape’s joys in those days. Everyone around Snape must have been inbred. 

“How are you?” Harry asked him. He knew he would not get a true answer, that he would only get sarcasm and mockery. 

“I was better before you came along,” Snape replied, true to form. 

Dumbledore must have truly liked the man, Harry thought for the umpteenth time. 

“Well, as long as you are not obsessing over dead people,” Harry replied, before biting his tongue in the shocked silence that ensued. He had become accustomed to sniping at Bellatrix, who could take just as well as she dished out insults. Snape was different. He was too sensitive to real or perceived slights. 

“I am sorry,” he said hastily, turning to look at Snape, at the damage he had caused. 

Snape’s shock faded to resolute martyrdom as he replied, “It must be truly my fate, to put up with you.”

Oh, good, martyr Snape was more pleasant to deal with than slighted Snape. 

“Thank you for coming,” Harry offered. 

“I did not come for you.” 

“Thank you for coming, nevertheless,” Harry pressed. He had learned from Dumbledore how to deal with Snape. 

“You are welcome, Potter,” Snape muttered, and there was peace again. They stood there in silence for a while, before Snape said, “I don't care for the current Defence Professor I have. I will take applications for the next year soon. It will suit you, I think.”

Harry was surprised. He wondered why Snape had offered it. There were better applicants, surely.

“Did Voldemort put you up to it?” 

“No, he forbade me to ask you,” Snape said. “Left to him, he will wrap you in cotton and keep you safe at home. I don’t think it is healthy for you to be cooped up in Rheims. Granger is here. It will do you a world of good to be in company your own age.” 

“Looking out for me, always,” Harry said, touched. He reached across to embrace the man, overwhelmed by affection, and Snape held still for a second before pulling away, offended, shaking his robes like a wet cat. Oh, this man. Harry suppressed a grin and said solemnly, “I will think about this.”

“I expect to see you at Hogwarts next year in August,” Snape said sternly, leaving no room for negotiation. 

——

He ate at a cosy table with Arthur and Hermione. Hermione’s parents had been afflicted by an empty-nest syndrome, and had gone backpacking across Europe. Fred and George were doing well, with their prank shop. That was the best investment he had made, surely. Bill and Fleur were getting ready for their third child. Percy had bought a house near Lambeth. 

He wondered about his finances. He ought to go to Gringott’s soon. Voldemort was absent-minded about many practical matters. 

“Oh,” Hermione said then, and Harry turned to see Voldemort walking towards their table. 

“I had best go to him,” Harry said, rising.

“Yes, yes,” Arthur hastily agreed, mopping his mouth with a napkin, looking worried. 

Hermione’s face was carved of determination as she grabbed Harry’s wrist. “Sit down, Harry. You were eating with us. Are you scared of him? Are you scared for us?”

Voldemort joined them then. He placed a hand lightly on Harry’s shoulder and asked, “Anything worth sampling?” 

And Harry slipped into their little world, even amidst the company, and said, “Nothing that you are fond of. The clanger is interesting.” Hermione’s grip on his wrist intensified. He took a deep breath and said, “This is Hermione. And this is Arthur.” 

“Yes, yes,” Arthur said quickly. “Oh, look, Percy is calling for me.” He nodded to Harry and vanished into the throng, leaving his dinner half-eaten. 

“I am not going to run,” Hermione said, though she was pale. Harry loved her so. She was Gryffindor there, standing tall and brave, even if she was afraid. 

“I hope not,” Voldemort said easily. “I would take your hand and profess how enchanted I am, but I daresay you might not welcome the gesture.” 

Hermione blinked. Harry resolutely turned his attention to the clanger on his plate. He was so close to giggling hysterically. 

“You should let him get out of Rheims,” she said firmly, though her eyes were now fixed on her plate. “It is not healthy.”

“Don’t, Hermione,” Harry cut in swiftly. “I like staying at home. He is not asking me to.”

She paid no heed to him. Instead, she forged ahead, saying, “I wish to visit him sometimes. Is that permitted?” 

“You are as fierce as Boudica of old. It is unnecessary to fight this battle, Hermione. It is his house too,” Voldemort replied.

“I will visit you,” she told Harry primly, suddenly at a loss for words. 

“Boudica indeed,” Harry said mischievously. She blushed, and then said, startled, “You know about Boudica?” 

“I know more than I used to,” Harry replied, casting a fond glance at his lover. He placed his hand over Voldemort’s that rested over his shoulder still. Hermione’s eyes moved to their rings, aligned over each other. For once, she was speechless. 

“That is the call for the last dance,” Voldemort said then. “Harry?” 

“I will wreck your feet,” Harry told him. 

“You were a terrible dancer,” Hermione said wryly, remembering the times he had danced with her. 

“I still am. I doubt a coma helps with that, Hermione.”

“Enough of that. By tradition, I am required to participate in the closing dance, Harry. If my partner shan’t, I will have to dance with my deputy, Griselda Marchbanks.”

Sure enough, there were murmurs in the crowd as they waited. There were flashbulbs and Quick Quills. Voldemort walked away towards Griselda. Bless her, she looked half her age, as always.

Harry muttered a hasty farewell to Hermione and rose to run after his lover. Voldemort turned just as Harry caught up with him. 

“Changed your mind, did you?” 

“Never,” Harry said, breathless from his run, far from his Quidditch fitness days, possessed of a body that bore no resemblance to that of the nubile youth who had come to Voldemort in a ninja suit. 

Voldemort held out his hand and Harry took it. Dancing was easier, Harry found to his surprise and delight, when someone else was leading. Voldemort led effortlessly too, gently and surely, without losing a step of synchronisation between their movements. His eyes were fixed on Harry’s, but Harry was looking around. 

Everyone had gathered. The stragglers on the dance floor had moved away too, to the fringes, and Harry’s gaze was blinded by the flashes of a thousand cameras. He wondered how Voldemort heard the music over the excited murmurs of the crowd. Voldemort’s right hand moved from his back to his waist, breaking their waltz, and Harry moved his left hand around Voldemort’s shoulder to complete their form, as they made a sharp half-turn. 

“You lied to me about your dancing skills,” Voldemort accused him. 

“In this as in many other many matters, my skills improve by leaps and bounds when you lead me,” Harry said smoothly, delighting as Voldemort missed a step. Overwhelmed by affection for the man in his hold, he leaned across for a kiss. Voldemort hesitated, before taking a deep breath, and closing his lips over Harry’s. 

The crowd erupted into surprised shouts, insults and lamentations. Harry drew back, but Voldemort followed him, keeping their kiss through the next half-turn. 

“As always, you act before you think,” Voldemort said, drawing back. “Now your admirers cannot claim that I force you to be my sex slave.”

“I believe Dumbledore documented over the years, thoroughly, that your sex slaves were many and willing,” Harry said, laughing, happy, despite the crowds. He could see Hermione there, with a cautious smile on her face. She had made terms with it, almost. 

“You are irrepressible today,” Voldemort replied. Harry inspected him critically. There was still grief and disbelief lurking in him, Harry could tell, but it was all settling down, to murky acceptance. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Harry asked. “I have you.” 

“Pithy.” 

The music had ended. Voldemort offered his hand to Harry and they walked out of the grand hall, away from the madding crowd, away from everything Harry had turned his back on two years ago. 

They walked to the Apparating point, and then Voldemort took him home. 

They walked together to their bedroom, and the curtains danced to the cold winds. Oh, one of the brambles was creeping in. Harry needed to find a housekeeper.

Voldemort was placing his wand by their bedside table. Harry walked to him. And when his lover looked up at him askance, Harry decided to forge ahead. 

“I have you. I have Catullus for you,” Harry said, nervous. The cuckoo inside their clock burst out just then, calling out the hour. He had painstakingly combed Voldemort’s books until he had found what he had been looking for. 

There they stood then, both of them worn away by life and grief, by suffering and sickness, by strangers and fate. And yet Harry only saw wholeness. 

“Iucundum, mea vita, mihi proponis amorem, hunc nostrum inter nos pertuumque fore.” 

“You, my life, promise that this love of ours shall be agreeable and forever,” Voldemort translated quietly. “When have I denied you?” 

“Never,” Harry said fiercely, gratefully, full of love. “Never.” 

He stepped into his lover’s embrace. 

—-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read, wrote to me, and stayed patient over the course of this story. I am so very glad to have met you, to have read your thoughts and opinions. It has been a pleasure. 
> 
> My notes for the chapter:  
> * Acheron, of Virgil - The River of death. If I cannot move heaven, I will move hell.  
> * Sonnet 58, of Shakespeare - 'That God forbid, that made me first your slave.'  
> * Catullus 85 - 'Odi et amo', one of the most powerful elegiac couplets in Latin literature.  
> * Catullus 109 - 'My life, promise me that our love', one of the most romantic Catullus verses.  
> * Satin doll - Bebop music from Duke Ellington.  
> * Swann's way - Marcel Proust, the Parisian's delight  
> * Boudica of Britain - one of the fiercest female warriors of legend  
> * The Rocky Horror musical - 1975 British production  
> * The Fundamentals of Physics, of Halliday et al - one of the leading undergraduate textbooks.  
> * Ahab - the captain with a grudge against Moby Dick

**Author's Note:**

> Catullus 16 - (Carmen) considered by some to be the filthiest thing Catullus wrote, begins with the quaint "I will sodomize you and face-fuck you..." line that Voldemort quotes.  
> To kill a mockingbird - (Harper Lee) Harry is interpreting the story flipped.  
> Pyramus and Thisbe - (Metamorphoses, Ovid) "not from rival families trysting" line that Voldemort quotes.  
> Gunslinger - (Stephen King) "I kill with my heart" line that Voldemort quotes.  
> Henry and Becket - (Canterbury) Thomas Becket, the cardinal of Canterbury, is murdered inside the cathedral by the supporters of the King Henry, supposedly acting on his words, "Who will rid me of this pest?"  
> Corinthians 1 - (New Testament) "Through a glass darkly, and then face to face"  
> Cain and Abel - (Old Testament) Harry's reference to the first murder in the Bible  
> Fleurs du Mal - (Charles Baudelaire) "This drab canvas we call life"  
> Ozzy Osbourne - (Black Sabbath) bit the head off a bat  
> Freddie Mercury - (Queen) died in 1991 of AIDS  
> Alan Turing - the mathematician war-hero Voldemort refers to  
> Basic Instinct - (Verhoeven) 1998 crime-thriller film  
> Pygmalion - (G.B. Shaw) the film 'My Fair Lady' was inspired by this  
> Jerusalem - (William Blake) 'I will not cease from my fight nor shall my sword in my hand sleep...'  
> Pieta - (Michelangelo) a famous, renaissance sculpture of the Virgin cradling the Christ after the crucifixion.  
> Mick Jagger - (Rolling Stones) lead-singer  
> Paul McCartney - (Beatles) one half of the famed Lennon-McCartney lyricist-partnership duo  
> On the Origin of Species - (Charles Darwin) the landmark work on the theory of evolution.  
> Martin Luther and the Pope - (Catholic Church) The Protestant Reformation  
> Sigmund Freud - (Vienna) developed methods of psychoanalysis. Came up with theories about sexuality and the human nature which were disproven. Rather notorious in some circles for his declaration that clitoral orgasm is an adolescent phenomenon and real women switch over to vaginal orgasms.  
> The Principles of Psychology - (William James) a ground-breaking psychology text. Coined the term 'stream of consciousness'.  
> The Ballad of Reading Gaol - (Oscar Wilde) based on his experiences in prison after the 1895 trial of Wilde Vs Marquis of Queensbury. The famous 'love that dare not speak his name'.  
> Catullus 50 - is one of the most studied poems of Catullus, because it speaks of love and longing, unrequited.  
> Holocaust - comes from the Greek holokauston, an animal sacrifice where the whole (olos) animal is burnt (kaustos). 'Fully burnt'.  
> Magna Carta (1215) - the Great Charter of Liberties (Magna Carta Libertum) John had to sign because the barons were threatening to revolt (Richard Lionheart's lackland brother).  
> Suffragette movement (19th, 20th centuries) - to get women the right to vote.  
> David Bowie - British rock musician, who had a single called Suffragette City, among various other claims to fame, including guitar-fellatio and gender-bending fashion.  
> Alföld - The Great Hungarian Plain, covering huge swathes of Hungary, Slovakia, Croatia, Serbia, Ukraine, Romania.  
> The Day That Never Comes - (Metallica) 'Enter the Sandman' and 'The Master of Puppets' are popular ones from the band.  
> Merlin and Nimue - the tragedy of Merlin in the cave  
> Fagin - Oliver Twist’s mentor who ran a pickpocket cartels (Dickens)  
> Robespierre - of the Reign of Terror notoriety. (The French Revolution)  
> Le Figaro - a popular French newspaper  
> There is no one, not one, but thee - Endymion (Keats)  
> Oedipus - child of prophecy who kills his father and weds his mother (Sophocles)  
> Dionysius - the God of arts and culture, of wine and trances.  
> Renaissance Popes - the popes of the Renaissance era, statesmen and politicians, war-chiefs, economists etc and had little to do with religion.  
> Renaissance - 14th to 17th century, triggered by the Fall of Constantinople to the Turks.  
> Einstein Rosen bridge - from the seminal 1930s paper on the theory and proof behind the wormhole hypothesis.  
> Sin to eat (Dickens) - Oliver Twist.  
> Leviticus (Old Testament) - "a man that lieth with a man"  
> Attlee Government (Labour Party) - the notorious austerity measures of the 1940s in postwar Britain.  
> Jeanne d'Arc (Maid of Orleans) - led the French to victory, ending up crowning Charles VII the King. Captured, burned at the stake, and later canonized as a saint.  
> Jubilate (Bach ) - The renowned sacred Cantatas. 
> 
> Further fics you might enjoy:  
> Abraxas/Tom Riddle - if that pairing catches your fancy, give **[The Prometheus Triptych](http://archiveofourown.org/series/13606) a** try.  
>  \---


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